If That Happens, I'll Catch You
by Shirokokuro
Summary: Bruce isn't the ideal father. It's something he's known all along, but he does his best anyway. (A compilation of Bruce and Tim one-shots.)
1. If That Happens

_AN: I was looking for some fluffy/bonding Bruce and Tim stories the other day, and I was surprised by how few there are out there...? So, I'm taking matters into my own hands. I don't usually take requests, but if you've got something you want to see, mention it in a comment and it might happen. (And if you've got recommendations, please send them my way, thanks. OuO'')_

* * *

 **If That Happens**

"It's almost evening."

Bruce glances up from where he's been sifting through the mail on the kitchen island.

Alfred's not wrong (The sun's just about to set.), but there's more to the statement than what meets the eye. Bruce decides not to address it in the end, just tosses another envelope onto its assorted pile.

As expected with Tim's arrival at the Manor, the media's in a buzz, and even though his mother's funeral was just this morning, Gotham reporters are a special breed of unempathetic, vulture-like so long as they get their story. Vicki Vale is the worst of them, and it's no question that she won't stop until the day after the end of time. And speaking of which…

"It's quarter after five," Alfred offers again, mixing something in the pot in front of him. Bruce is pretty certain the soup doesn't need the constant attention it's been getting, but Alfred keeps stirring it anyway, gaze lost on the backsplash crowning the stove. "He hasn't eaten all day."

Bruce's eyes glean another invitation from the Gotham Gazette before setting the stack down with a sigh. "Doubt he's hungry."

"He didn't eat yesterday either," the Englishman comments, almost dreamy like the knobs on the stove will listen if he only says it sad enough. He comes back to life after a long moment and begins tapping the spoon on the rim of the pot. The ladle is set down. "Might I trouble you to take this up to him?"

That catches Bruce's attention.

Alfred is the last person to ask for a favor, and hence, the question has far more meaning. Everything the older man says is the same, riddled with deeper purpose—whether that be subtle sarcasm or something more akin to what's transpiring between the two of them now. That's probably why Bruce respects him so much, because Alfred's a mystery that keeps him on his toes.

But Alfred knows that what he's really asking for is not the type of thing Bruce is good at.

The Englishman is already reaching for a bowl, though, silently informing Bruce that this is happening whether he wants it to or not, so Bruce relents, "Alright," and it's almost as if time has become moot, because in the next instant, the man's standing outside of a door with a small tray, staring down the handle like it's poisonous and liable to bite if he moves too soon.

It's silly, really. He's well-aware of what's waiting behind the door: a maze of expensive furniture with a thirteen-year-old lost in its midst. But for whatever reason, beating down the suspicious lot of Gotham sounds infinitely more appealing as Bruce scrutinizes the entrance.

This situation is calling up memories of when he was ten, and Alfred is so much better at these kinds of things, because that's a time Bruce tries not to think about, not to get caught up in. Ultimately, the only thing he can't ever get off his mind is the constant ache in his chest. That's because it's still there after all these years; the pain re-announces itself every moment with a worsening throb, so Bruce already knows there's nothing he can say to the boy in that room.

It never gets better.

But eventually, Bruce pulls down the handle with his free hand, and the door skirts aside, skittish, like it's been startled by the growl of its own hinge.

The man spends a while in the open doorway, trapped between the doorjambs because there's a second where he has to look, eyes scanning for raven hair or ocean eyes but not finding either. He won't find them, he realizes, because all that remains of Tim is a mountain of blankets on the bed. The form isn't moving, encased in the quilts like it's a casket that's waiting to be put under, and Bruce watches.

It takes an eternity before the man's eyes adjust enough to the darkness to make it out. A steady rise and fall rocks the upper-half of the shape, indicates there's still a breathing person somewhere in there. The air lightens a bit at the recognition.

Bruce would guess Tim's just asleep, but he knows that's not true. When it comes to trauma, the world is filled with two types of people: those who are too tired, willing to sleep through it all, and those who relive the pain, running it over and over to the point where sleep is less a necessity and more an inconvenience. Out of those options, Bruce and Tim are the latter, one in the same. It's an axiom that drives Bruce to take a step forward, followed by another and another.

One would think that the lessened distance would make Tim look bigger, but if anything, he's somehow grown smaller, juxtaposed with the overly-large mattress that looks more depressing than comfortable. The bedframe creaks slightly when Bruce sits down, setting the tray on the nightstand. As much as the mattress has shifted under the added weight, Tim doesn't move.

He's feigning sleep. But Bruce knows better, and he stays.

Tim must figure his plan didn't work after a while, because there's the rustle of the blankets that summon black lacquer hair and the eyes Bruce was searching for earlier. But Tim doesn't say anything still, and the both of them wait for something to happen that likely won't.

"How are you doing?" Bruce asks in the end. He instantly hates himself for the question, but it's the only one he could think of, so he lets it be.

"I'm fine," comes the expected response. The two haven't known each other for that long, only a year now, but Bruce understands him well enough to get that the phrase is Tim's "go to" when he doesn't want to talk. Alfred is downstairs waiting, however. He'll want to hear that Bruce and the young man have had some semblance of a conversation, and the thought keeps Bruce there.

It doesn't make it easier to find something to say, though, so he looks over the boy's face instead. Tim's not making eye contact, irises pulled to the side, almost glowing in the dark quiet, but Bruce doesn't break away. The boy is tired, exhausted, and there's a redness to his skin that contrasts oddly with the pale. Bruce knows it's not embarrassment, and he knows it's not a fever—Anyone would be a bit overheated if they were holed up under three comforters like Tim has been—but Bruce's hand moves to the boy's forehead anyway.

Tim flinches a bit at the touch. It's probably something he's not used to, and to be honest, it's not very familiar to Bruce either. But the boy doesn't move away, giving silent consent, so Bruce tells himself the contact is okay.

His skin's warm to the touch like it's had sunrays beating on it even though the blinds are drawn. Bruce vaguely remembers that Dick felt the same. Jason did too. But Jason's gone—has been for a long time—and Dick has moved on. Bruce is here with Tim now, matching black hair and blue eyes that link the two of them in lieu of blood, and it's as if he's stuck in a perpetual loop of reincarnation, a new boy always filling the space where an old one once stood. But Bruce is determined to get this one right. He's not good at it. He'll admit that, but he's not losing this one. Not if he can help it.

There's the small sound of someone swallowing beside him, tentative and quiet, and it draws Bruce's focus back.

"Do you ever…get scared?"

Bruce's head tilts slightly at the question. That's not what he was expecting—not from Tim, and he's trying to get a better view of the boy's face, a clue to suss out the meaning there because Tim is as much of a puzzle as Alfred and Bruce is trying to understand them both. But the boy's eyes haven't moved; they're fixed on some unimportant space past the rest of the world.

"Sometimes," Bruce answers thoughtfully, brushing back a piece of the boy's hair, because he's trying to get his attention. It works: Blue eyes flicker in his direction, a faint twinge of desperation lost there.

"But you're Batman."

Bruce could almost smile at the innocence of the comment. There's a lot left for them to learn about each other, and it leaves Bruce there, smoothing black strands back off white skin and trying to understand. "Sometimes that's what's scary," he replies, and he leaves it at that. Tim already knows what he means. He's seen Bruce at his lowest, consumed by darkness, and the boy doesn't reply, digesting the thought as his eyes move back to whatever void he was lost in before. Bruce traces the path and finds only the wall; there's nothing there.

"And you?" Bruce tries, gaze pulled back.

Tim is quiet for a long time, and Bruce almost thinks he's misspoken, misread, misunderstood, and the effort will have been for nothing. An answer does come, though, nebulous but clear enough that Bruce can get it.

"I…don't like being alone."

It's something Tim would do: not admit that he's afraid of that solitude and instead casting it as something he dislikes. But this isn't something that's so easy to redefine. His mother's gone. His father might never wake up. And the world is changing.

Bruce considers that idea for a minute, how much everything is up in the air for someone who overthinks everything, analyzes and runs through every last possibility. It's something worse than torture when Tim's biggest worry should be getting his homework done and who to ask to the middle school dance. But no. He's buried under a pile of blankets, having just buried his mother and probably asking himself if he'll have to do it for his father soon too. That fear is solidified when Tim speaks again.

"What if he doesn't wake up?"

Bruce's fingers hesitate for a heartbeat, all Tim's hair in order now, but it feels wrong to pull away. In the end, he leaves his hand there. "He'll wake up."

"But what if he doesn't?" The boy sounds just a bit pained, more emotion than usual for Tim, but there's no hint of anything more, not even tears. They're probably locked up somewhere in his chest, unable to get out and instead thinning his voice as he continues, "What'll happen next?"

Tim's smart. He understands the chances of waking up from a coma after this long, and as awful as they are, he's trying to concoct a plan with those grim outcomes. Bruce can guess he's too overwhelmed to come up with one; he's asking Bruce instead.

The man breathes in slowly, shoulders coming up like soft steam before dissipating. "You'll stay here in the Manor, and we'll work from there." Two eyes refocus on Bruce, quiet but more attentive than they've been so far. "We're partners now, Tim, so don't worry so much."

The admission is something Tim doesn't reply to, searching Bruce's face as if he's trying to find uncertainty written there but never can. It takes a minute before the teenager exhales, weak as settling dust, and his irises make contact with the shadowed tray on the nightstand.

"Soup," Bruce clarifies at the silent query, "something light."

"Smells good," Tim murmurs, but he doesn't budge. It's like he's afraid the hand still resting on his forehead will leave if he does, so Bruce doesn't shift either, lets it be. They'll have to move eventually, but for now, this is fine, and so, they stay.


	2. I'll Catch You

_AN: This is based (very) loosely on a conversation Tim has in_ Robin #156 _, so I'm gonna play it safe: **Trigger Warning** for suicidal thoughts. There's nothing too graphic I don't think, but if that ideation gets to you, please skip ahead and take care of yourselves out there._

* * *

 **I'll Catch You**

A car horn sounds somewhere below, a noise that makes the man distinctly uncomfortable. He looks for a crash, for _something_ , but there's nothing, no crunching metal, no screams fizzling through a phone speaker. It's deathly quiet; no one's even noticed him up here.

"You can do this," he self-coaches, back against the building behind him while the ledge sits at the tips of his toes. Just one step. It's something so simple, and there's a rush of adrenaline that hits, that whispers that it's so easy now, that the answer's only a never-ending footfall away.

But there's something else that's there. Will it hurt? Will he feel anything? He's looked it up, read the statistics, and he doubts he'll even make it to the ground before it'll be over. Yet he's twenty stories above the rest of Downtown, looking at the ledge like it's something dangerous but _he wants it_.

"Well?"

The man glances up, panic evident on his face because no one else is supposed to be here. But there is: There's a shadow perched cat-like on one of the statues lining the ledge, limned in frosty backlights so strong that it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust enough to make out the silhouette. The arrival drives home the point once more that he didn't want someone to come; he was supposed to be _alone_.

"Are you gonna do it?" the voice comes again.

It's someone young by the timbre (a teenager perhaps). But it still stands that the only clue to the shadow's identity is a happy hint of goldfinch yellow that belongs to the fabric behind him. The cape is drifting softly in the direction of the ledge, the wind an invisible force that's beckoning it to throw itself off, teasing it, tempting it.

It lures the man's eyes back down. The breeze is calling him forward too. "Would you care?"

"I would," the admission comes easily, "but that's not what matters in the end." Brown eyes are drawn to meet with the shadow, faintly curious, and it's the most emotion the man's felt in a long time. "What matters is if you would care."

"I wouldn't." The man's words are determined, certain as the concrete that waits below.

The shadow's fallen silent now. Its focus has been pulled downward instead, almost avoidant, but there's a contemplation there that holds the man's attention. "Then what's stopping you?"

It's a question so honest that the man doesn't move, just stares. "You'd catch me," he manages.

"Not if you don't want me to."

"Why?"

The shadow pauses wistfully. It's looking out at the building across the street, surveying it with a tangible intensity as if the lights reflecting on the window can yield the answer to life's problems. "You'd just come out here the next night and the next night," it breathes. "I can't promise I'd be there every time, so if you're going to do it now, I won't catch you."

The avowal lays, thickening in the summer air. It's silent permission from this person that's joined him on the ledge, so the man takes a small step forward, hesitant, and he hates himself for letting his resolve slip even that much.

Car lights continue to drift by in a stream on the street, meek and sweet, and the man takes a moment to appreciate how tempting they are. It's almost too pretty a night for the thoughts swirling in his head. He can't fight them, though; he's been planning this too long, every day, every moment. And now he's here, toes of his shoes leaning over the edge, breath thinned from the height. But his plan didn't account for this.

"I can't do it if you're here," the man admits quickly, taking a step back.

A low hum drones, resonating faintly, but the shadow doesn't move. "I'm not leaving. I might not stop you, but the least I can do is watch."

"I can't," the man repeats. He knows who the shadow is: a teenager. The boy's likely in high school, just like his own son was, and it pulls at his stomach in a way that makes him snap his eyes closed. "You're too young. You shouldn't see this."

Another hum echoes, undisturbed as its owner remains seated on the statue, still looking out at the wall of skyscrapers across from them. "It's fine," the voice comes. "It won't bother me as much as you think."

"But it'll bother me. I don't—I don't wanna go with regrets like that."

"…You've still got regrets, though. You wouldn't be out here otherwise." The words are reaching too clear, too omniscient—like standing on a ledge and considering ending it all is something commonplace that this individual has done thousands of times. It makes the man even more uncomfortable, because it's empathy, a connection to someone else. That's not what he's wanting, not when he's here, so close to just...

"You're right," the man admits, back against the outside of the building now, "but I can't make it right, so this is—"

"The only thing you can do?"

The shadow's cape rustles in the wind. It's a sound that breeches the space between them, a gap that's abyssal but paradoxically nonexistent.

"You're too young to understand," the man works out, already feeling that his words aren't true.

"Try me."

"You..." The sentence stops. There's too much to say, and words really aren't enough. "You're just like him," he restarts. It's a lame thing to divulge, because he can't see the person beside him, not too well, but he knows enough by that goldfinch glint; he already knows who it is. And he also knows it's someone too young to be out here, not at this kind of hour, not for this conversation, but they're there. The two of them are there in a world of their own, one of bright lights and dark thoughts, and he wants to fall but words fall instead.

"I was on the phone with him when he died," the man starts. And he doesn't know why, but at the confession, it's almost as if the shadow next to him has gotten even darker.

"My son—He was late, driving home, so I called him. He—" The rest doesn't want to come, but he's already started and he tells himself that makes it easier when it doesn't. "He got distracted— _I_ distracted him. It's been two months since..."

He doesn't need to finish. The sharp crunch of car metal and shattering glass are still heavy on his mind, the car crash an eternal weight that he's realized is already dragging him down, so it's easier to just let it drag him down one last time, to give in.

In the meantime, the shadow that's been beside him hasn't moved, hasn't spoken. It's accepted the words with the same contemplative air that's haunted it throughout the conversation. And it shouldn't be this way, but for just an instant, the man thinks the boy'll be the one to do it, to go over the edge and that their roles are reversed. The shadow just sits, though, motionless aside from the omnipresent pull of its cape.

"It won't go away—that pain," it finally speaks, "but there are people out there who are counting on you."

"He was my everything," the man's voice cracks. "I don't have anyone else. I just…" And there's the briefest moment where the ledge looks so painfully inviting. He doesn't know what'll come after, but— "I just want to see him again."

"You will." It's said as if it's fact, simple and gentle yet grounded in seriousness. "But you do have other people here. You can't see them yet, but they're up ahead." The figure moves faintly, turns away from the street to face the man head-on. "I know it's not easy, and it probably won't be for a long time, but… Someone some day soon'll find you, and they'll make it better, just a bit but it'll be enough. So, can I ask you to hang on—for them?"

A hand extends, black as the night sky around them, and it's the only thing the man can see right then, the only thing that's important. There's something about it that's tempting, more tempting than the ledge. Why that is, he doesn't know, and there's a second when he asks himself when he last held someone's hand, when he last held his son's hand. He can't even remember. But if he can have that again, if somewhere in this lifetime, there's someone waiting, then maybe it's all right.

And somehow, slowly, his hand finds its way.

* * *

Bruce finds Tim at the same spot from a few hours ago. His partner had managed to talk a someone out of jumping, and it's always the same with Tim: He always stays up there until Bruce finds him. It's almost as if the teenager is waiting each time, so Bruce doesn't take long to appear, analyzing him with silent eyes, checking for cuts, bruises, wounds.

Tim is fine in the physical sense. That much is obvious. Yet Bruce can't keep himself from checking anyway, because Tim's got that look in his eyes that Bruce never knows how to address. The physical wounds are the ones that can be diagnosed and treated, that can be bandaged and soothed, but the kind of blank emotion on Tim's face as he appraises the street below—That's something Bruce can diagnose but was never trained how to treat.

And so, he stands beside him and waits for Tim to move. He will eventually. He always does, picks up his feet and keeps going as if that dark expression could never belong on his features, still young and kind. Tonight is different, though. Bruce can feel it in the air. He keeps waiting.

After a few minutes, Tim shifts a bit, resituating his legs over the ledge as he sits there. His eyes are still trained on the street below, and Bruce wants his focus to change, to look at him instead because anything is better than watching someone admire concrete like it's something nice. But nothing happens. All that changes is a small gust of wind that murmurs to the both of them. It's pulling black and gold cloth over the edge but their shapes remain, trying to think of the right words to erase the distance that's grown up between them.

"What if I did it?" Tim finally poses, eyes unmoved. Bruce knows what he's asking. It doesn't need to be said, and the answer is on Bruce's tongue in an instant.

"I'd catch you."

Tim's focus shoots up at that. An innocent look is on the boy's face that he's too stunned to hide. "But what if it was all the time?" he asks, and there's a child-like quality to his voice that's blameless and undeserving of the words that are gracing it. "Night after night. What would you do then?"

Bruce vets his partner's expression for another moment, mulling the question over, and there's only one thought that comes. "If that was the case then…I guess I'd catch you. And I'd just never let go."

Tim continues to stare at him, his brain trying to wrap around the statement, because he looks too dazed to believe it. After a long minute, his attention turns back to the city lights. But...Tim's not looking at them quite the same way as he was a minute ago, a nostalgic smile pulling at his mouth and eyes instead like the words have painted the world in a better color. Bruce makes a point to remember that expression. He's not sure what it means, but his shoulders feel lighter at the sight of Tim shuffling to his feet.

"Let's go home," the teenager says, removing his grapnel and snapping it into place. His smile's brighter now, more genuine, and it tells Bruce things are okay. He really would catch him, but he doubts he'll need to as Tim continues, "We don't want to keep Alfred waiting."

Bruce grunts out an affirmative at that, two cables shooting out into the night sky to make sure they land safely.

And they jump.


	3. An Act of Mercy

_AN: Inthenightguest - Thank you so much! ^^ That comic scene you mentioned last chapter is the same one, yes! (It's a sad moment. OnO)_

 _And thank you to my other guest friend who commented :) This chapter's sad but has some happier feels, because Tim is actually a goofball who's just been dealt a crummy life. He needs hugs...and sleep._

* * *

 **An Act of Mercy**

Tim has driven before. He did a few laps once with Alfred the other month, something relatively normal for a thirteen-year-old, but a supped-up, high-powered war machine like the one he's in now? Yeah, the only thing in the Batmobile Tim really feels confident operating are the monitors and maybe the cup holders. It still stands that he can probably take the car apart and reassemble it by memory (Bruce almost made him do it once.), but when it comes to actually driving it, that'll have to be a no. His bike doesn't fit two people, however—not in his and Bruce's condition, anyway—so this is how it has to be.

Everything else is telling him it's an awful idea regardless. His growing headache and fuzzing vision insist he shouldn't be operating a vehicle at all, say the road signs that flash in the headlights aren't good for a concussion, and there's a plethora of other things that are determined to make driving impossible.

Bruce is 6'2"; Tim is 5'1". That foot of difference is mountainous right now, as in the chaos, Tim didn't have time to shift the seat up and forward. By now, he's too terrified to make the attempt, and he's settling for slouching half-way down the cushions just to reach the pedals. He can already feel his neck muscles aching from the strain, because that lowered vantage point means most of the road has been reduced to a handsome horizon of steering wheel.

Even worse, he's got school tomorrow.

And he's pretty sure he's failing physics.*

"Don't worry, Bruce," Tim encourages, more to himself than the half-conscious person beside him. "We'll get there. You'll be alright."

There's no response, just a collection of murmuring from where Bruce has his head against the car window, face strained, and Tim pulls the scraps of his attention together enough to refocus on the road.

He'll turn on the auto function in another mile. Tim wants to be sure he's lost whatever remains of Scarecrow's men, because as soon as the autopilot takes over, the car'll be making a beeline straight for the nearest entrance to the Batcave, and Alfred doesn't appreciate uninvited guests—least of all ones with guns.

So, for at least the next minute, Tim's in the driver's seat; he's making the decisions, because Bruce isn't in any state to do much more than try to keep sane until the antidote kicks in.

Tim isn't really fairing much better. But he's not going to think about that.

Instead, he takes a turn, the kind that's just a tad (maybe a lot of tads) too sharp, and one of the wheels pops up onto the curb for an instant before slamming back against the pavement. The jostling urges his headache to kick in the door and reintroduce itself to his occipital lobes; for a horrifying second, Tim thinks he's going to black out right then and there—not a good plan, really—and his hand flies to the autopilot, because it doesn't matter if someone's tailing them and finds the cave. The place isn't much use if they crash before they can even get there.

It's almost like magic how the car immediately rights itself. For another moment, Tim watches the headlights spearhead the shadowed pavement, telling himself the car can drive itself better than he can right now, before slumping back against the seat. He's still seeing stars from when the back of his head collided with a brick wall. Bruce'll probably feel sorry about that in a few hours, but in the man's defense, he wasn't in his right mind at the time.

Tim's eyes crawl over to where his partner remains belted in the passenger seat. He's still not with it, honestly, continuously muttering random syllables under his breath, because this strain of Fear Toxin is brand new. Colorless. Odorless. And a whole lot stronger.

They weren't expecting that. Tim also wasn't expecting that when Bruce told him to hang back, he'd find the man minutes later raving in ways that clashed scarily with the calm, calculated person Tim's come to know.

At least there's one thing going for them: It seems the old antidote works somewhat. It's not much, but it'll have to be enough, because that's all they've got.

In the meantime, Bruce is there, and Tim doesn't want to imagine what kind of things his partner is seeing from where he's got his eyes pulled closed against the cowl. The expression doesn't look right, not on Bruce. It drives Tim to finagle with his seat belt and shift over to the tight space between where the man is sitting and the dashboard. Instantly, Tim's brain reminds him it's another bad idea of his, and the road is more than happy to agree. A pothole kicks the wheels up, stubborn enough that the shock absorbers forget what their name is and the window decides it's got to be the thing to absorb Tim instead. The bullet-proof glass catches his shoulder with as much grace as the brick wall that landed him here, crouched over, concussed, and on the brink of passing out. This—This really wasn't the exciting night of crime-fighting Tim had planned.

It's too late to change it, though. He's already here, and his partner needs something.

"Bruce, whatever you're seeing," Tim manages, looking Bruce dead-on as best he can through the haze, "it's not real. It's just you and me, and you're gonna be okay." He hopes they are. Tim can already see the road shifting through the back window, knows they're almost to the alley where the wall will fold up and they'll see Alfred. Just another minute.

"You're safe," Tim works out, "Alf'll get you fixed up, and I promise I'll..." The teenager's vision bursts into a hot kaleidoscope of white and grey, prompting him to stop until it clears. It doesn't, and he realizes proprioception is nothing more than a sweet memory, like his limbs are lost in space. It all leaves Tim half in Bruce's lap, trying to maintain a semblance of strength, but in all honesty, he doubts it's working. "…I promise I'll buff out the scratches I got on the car, so don't worry." Tim tries a laugh to lighten the mood, but humor's not going for him either; Bruce still looks uncharacteristically haunted, marred by distress, and Tim's lungs tell him that laugh just used up his last stash of oxygen.

He tries to take another breath. Hardly anything comes.

Now that he thinks about it, maybe it's not such a bad thing Bruce is out of it. Tim would really hate for his partner to see him like this, head resting on Bruce's knees and praying that the bit of lessened altitude will somehow make the air dense enough to breathe again. As expected, it doesn't. Tim's left struggling to focus on the cool Kevlar that's sitting against his forehead and the words that are washing over his ears, not registering, but he knows they're his own.

"You're gonna be okay," he keeps saying. "I'm here. We're almost home. You're gonna be okay."

Everything's tunneling. It's not an encouraging thought, but it's kind of…nice. The pain's ebbing away, and his head feels warm, a comforting sort of hot like being thawed out beside a fire, heating his skin and his blood and his thoughts, because they're all melting away into nothing. At the end of the day, there's only one thing anchoring him here, and that's Bruce. The man can't protect himself, not like this, so it's Tim's responsibility. He's Tim's partner. Tim is supposed to be a rock for him, a support, and despite the fact all sounds are fading, blacking out too, that much is still clear.

Tim's not sure who'll be the one to find them like this, weak as kittens. It could still be Scarecrow for all he knows, and when a new light filters in through the passenger door, when Tim feels himself being pulled up by his shoulders, his mind's screaming for him to move.

He tries to shove the new form away, because Bruce needs him to be tough enough for the both of them. The resistance doesn't do much, however, and instead, Tim's skull shrieks that it's going to split clean open from the effort. A pair of hands catch him before he becomes good friends with the floor.

"Master Timothy," someone hisses, and…

"Alfred?"

Tim's trying to concentrate on the familiar face through the fuzzy static that's crowding out his vision. He instantly regrets the attempt ( _Have the cave's lights always been this bright?_ ), and he snaps his eyes closed again.

Thankfully, Alfred's the type to act first, ask questions later, and it truly isn't a minute later that Tim's found himself directed to a treatment bench. Although it's only been a short while, he forgot how nice sitting down is. It's making the nausea fade, and the world's stopped spinning as much. He'll count that as a plus.

Somewhere along the line, his mask has been taken off, vanished, and Alfred's face swims into his line of sight. It computes vaguely that he's checking to see how blown out Tim's pupils are. Judging by the ambiguous sound that resonates in the man's throat, Tim's guessing they must not be bad enough for him to panic, but Alfred's still scrutinizing them anyway. Some people say the eyes are the window to the soul; for Alfred, they're the quickest way to check for hemorrhaging.

After another moment, a few fingers slip behind Tim's head, feeling for bumps along his skull and bruising behind his ears. "Explain."

Alfred's kind, patient and empathetic in ways that make him a relaxing person to be around, so Tim knows there's no way that one word was said half as loud as it sounded. Still, it's enough to send an earthquake through Tim's eardrums, and when the teenager opens his mouth to reply, his own voice is just as painful. "Bruce," he says, wincing at the sound. "New Fear Toxin. Got a bit knocked up trying to calm him down's all."

That's as much as Alfred needs to hear to prove Tim's able to hold a conversation, so the teenager doesn't say more, instead getting lost in the soothing sensation of nimble fingers brushing away the pain.

There's a long pause as the Englishman waits, still combing through black hair, before the hands pull away. "Rest," he orders simply. Tim opens his mouth to argue. He's got class in a few hours, and his attendance is already on the brink of unsalvageable….

Alfred's two steps ahead of him. "As tempting as the drama of junior high may be, I can assure you that's not the stimulation your mind is needing presently." The man taps Tim's shoulder gently, wordlessly telling him this isn't a battle the teenager's going to win. "Rest," he repeats, and then he's gone.

He's probably wandered off to handle Bruce, Tim thinks. The teenager contemplates standing up to see if his partner is any better, if he can offer any help, because the kind of pain Bruce is in is ten times worse than his own. Tim moves to slip his feet back onto the floor when his vision flickers monochrome, and… maybe laying down isn't such a bad idea after all.

He's out the minute his head hits the pillow.

* * *

One of the hands clicks forward.

The grandfather clock in the study is kindly reminding Tim that he's already missed his first two classes. It's a fact he's taking a moment to lament, kissing his once-good grades good-bye, because there's a quiet guilt that comes with watching the time tick by when he should be in math, staring at a whiteboard instead of a clock face. Tim keeps telling himself he's got a concussion, though (Alfred's right to say that kind of thing deserves rest.), so he can't go. But at the very least the thirteen-year-old hoped he could be asleep.

However, being under Alfred's care means constant observation that's more out of caution than anything else. Head injuries aren't anything to sneeze at, and thus, every two hours, Tim's found himself awakened by a concerned Englishman who's making sure Tim's maintained the gift that is consciousness. The teenager's still in the Manor and not in the ER, so it's no secret that those intervals yielded only a mildly-cranky sidekick and a circadian rhythm that's saying right now's the perfect time to be awake.

It's not.

But Tim's here anyway.

His headache's still present too, a constant throb that's copiously dumping pain into his cranium like Halloween candy into a jack-o-lantern bucket. The lidocaine from his stitches is long gone as well, and—Gosh, he just wants to sleep.

He came upstairs in search of food that would help with that, changing clothes while he was at it. Sadly, nothing's worked, and Tim's left in the study even more tired and now wearing one of Dick's old college sweatshirts. Admittedly, the clothing's a bit big. A tear's worn its way through the ribbing on the cuff, too, but Tim doesn't mind. He's thumbing the hole as he rotates the grandfather clock forward to 10:48.

The entrance opens up just like he knew it would, and the teenager's wandering down the steps to the cave, careful fingertips sweeping the wall beside him for support.

"Is he any better?" Tim asks the instant Alfred becomes visible.

The man looks tired as he sighs in return. Between fussing over the both of them, it's no question Alfred hasn't slept a wink all night. "The Master's awake," he finally voices, "but I'm afraid the most we can do is wait for the toxin to run its course. No need to worry," Alfred adds quickly, noting the unease that's slipped across Tim's face, "he's quite tame last I checked. Perhaps only a few more hours will do it."

The teenager offers a slow nod, exhaling delicately. "You think it's okay if I see him?"

One of Alfred's eyebrows raises. Tim already knows what the man's implying, so he wastes no time amending, "I'll sleep right after, I promise."

The eyebrow lowers.

"Very well," Alfred waves off. "I'll be upstairs on call with Lucius. I doubt the Master will be making any appearance at Wayne Enterprises today."

Tim watches the man leave for another moment before weaving through the cave to the med bay. The whole room is lit by only the dimmest lights, and there's the faintest chemical scent mixed in with laundry detergent—a byproduct of the clean bed sheets. It's a smell that instantly makes Tim feel a bit better. (Feeling like Alfred's nearby will do that for anyone.) But then, Tim spies the person on one of the beds.

Bruce is awake. That shouldn't be surprising, but it is because of the intensity on his face. He's sitting upright and watching the bedspread like it'll come alive and strangle him the moment he looks away. Maybe that's what he's really thinking, and the observation darkens the whole space.

Bruce remains quiet. Tim isn't convinced that's a good thing.

"Hey," the teenager tries lightly. The effort doesn't garner a reply; Bruce didn't even hear him from how it looks. So, Tim waits in the entrance for another minute, eyes running over the man's face. Bruce's jaw is tight, eyes downcast as he continues to scrutinize the sheets, and his breathing is slow, calm.

That last one's a heartening sign. But Tim continues to pull at the loose threads surrounding the hole in his sleeve, unsure if he should re-announce himself or let the man be. Leaving Bruce alone means leaving him alone with his demons, whatever they are, and at the thought of that, Tim opens his mouth again.

"Bruce?" he manages, just a bit louder, as he takes a hesitant step forward.

This time works. Haggard eyes snap upward, a fervent gravity swirling in them, and it's so intense that Tim almost backpedals. Almost. He forces himself to stay rooted in the doorway, because moving too fast suddenly seems dangerous. Bruce doesn't get that look. Not like that. So, Tim remains frozen there, muscles tightening in preparation while he wonders what Bruce is seeing, what's making him look at Tim with that kind of broiling focus that's unpredictable and markedly not Batman—not Bruce. What is it he's seeing?

They face off for what feels like an eternity, Tim wondering and Bruce staring, until the man finally utters a name.

"…Jason."

It's instinct for Tim's gaze to shoot over his own shoulder, to look for the memorial case that he already knows isn't visible behind him. He's hoping it's there anyway, anything else for Bruce to be looking at and calling for his son, because Tim's praying it's anything other than himself.

But of course, only a stone wall greets the teenager's eyes.

Tim slowly turns his head back, and—No. Bruce is looking right at him. A sort of hopefulness is written on the man's face that's so concentrated it borders on the hopeless instead.

Tim knows what Bruce is seeing. And Tim also knows it's not true. Sure, they've both got blue eyes and black hair and goofy grins that appear sometimes, but it still stands.

Tim's not Jason.

Tim's predecessor is someone he respects in the same way he respects Dick. He's respected the two of them ever since he was a kid sitting out late at night with a Polaroid and a silent hope that he'd see Batman and Robin out. Just a glimpse was enough to make his jaw drop, to make him look up to them like they were gods and he was only someone grateful to exist in the same world as them. Never with them. Never beside them. Just there.

So, Tim respects Jason.

But he's not Jason.

It's something that's obvious any time Bruce turns, says, "Robin," and there's a momentary gleam in the man's eyes that lasts only as long as it takes for them to set on Tim. Because Tim knows what Bruce thinks when he says that title, _who_ he thinks of. It's gotten better over the months, over time, but Tim knows.

Bruce is still looking for Jason. He never stopped, and something about that—about being out on missions and seeing that instant where Bruce's expression falters when he sees Tim there instead, over a year since Jason passed away and Tim became Robin, about standing here now in front of Bruce and being mistaken for someone he's not and can't ever be, it—It…

It makes him feel cheated.

A sharp pain sears his chest for a minute, and Tim lies and says the concussion has somehow worked its way down there, that there's a medical reason for the way it feels like his lungs have filled with fluid and his heart has stopped. But there's no medical explanation for this, and Tim hates himself for just that moment, because he's actually wishing he could be someone else—wishing he could be his predecessor instead of who he's stuck being.

Because Bruce never looks at Tim that way. He probably never will, and it's stupid, and it hurts, and Tim's asking himself why he's suddenly jealous of someone who's dead, asking himself when he cared so much because he and Bruce—They're professionals. That's all their relationship is, and it's obvious, and Tim accepted that. They're nothing more than that, not family, not father-son, not anything. Professionals.

Then why does he feel like he's been cheated out of something?

Tim already knows why, but he keeps telling himself it's a mystery. The mystery's the thing that's causing his heart to rise to his throat and sink to his feet at the same time. He's telling himself that it's something unexplainable and that that makes it easier to think of Bruce in the same way he always has: It's just another mystery that he has to solve but secretly never wants to.

It doesn't make the ache go away.

All Tim can do is look back at someone who can't even see him—if he ever even did. Bruce is gazing at him still with that desperate expression, and it hits that the way things are now, there's no reasoning with the man. He'll remember Jason in the morning, remember Joker and the bomb and the year of heartbreak. But at this moment, Bruce doesn't remember, would probably lose it if he did; he's on who knows what kind of hallucinogen, staring at someone ten feet in front of him that he's convinced is his son but really isn't. Never has been. Never will be.

 _He's dead, Bruce_. Tim wants to say. _It's just me, it's just…It's…_

"Yeah," he answers, "it's me."

There's a long moment of pause that follows the statement. Tim lets it be, steeling his face against that emotion swirling in him, the one doesn't want to identify as heartache.

The admission's a lie, but it's a sympathetic one. Because Tim can't give Bruce a lot. The man's lost his son, and from where Bruce sits, Tim is that one person he'd do anything to get back. And as much as Tim wants to be honest, to say Jason's gone and end the fantasy Bruce is trapped in, Tim's not sure how much good it'd do. Because if Bruce were hearing that from Tim, Bruce could take it. But if Bruce were hearing that from Jason, hearing it from someone he _thinks_ is Jason, Bruce… He might not be able to handle that.

Tim knows as much, and he's hoping what he's doing is an act of mercy instead of white cruelty cast in a white lie. He's hoping Bruce will wake up in the morning, convinced it will all have been a dream, and that'll be the end of it. But when Bruce lifts his hand, hesitantly entreating him to come closer, Tim immediately regrets being here.

Jason should be here.

But it's Tim instead that moves forward, recognizing he's past the point of no return, and it's Tim's hand that moves to greet the tips of Bruce's fingers, testing the water because he's certain that at this distance, his smaller frame and too-long hair will be visible—enough to discern the difference that Tim keeps saying exists between himself and Jason, because right now, it's a mile wide and painfully obvious.

Bruce is memorizing his face, relearning it as Tim moves his hand just a bit closer. And then, there's a terrifying moment, one in which a stronger hand slips past his own to grab his forearm, and Tim thinks he's made a mistake, remembers Bruce is still hallucinating and unpredictable, because he's being yanked forward at a speed that makes his mind snap to the instant something similar happened. The teenager's remembering a few hours prior in which Tim was convinced Bruce wouldn't hurt him only to find his head cracked against a slab of brick.

But that isn't what happens: The only thing that happens is he's somehow found his way into Bruce's arms, vision obscured by collarbone and ears flooded with the sounds of fifty different apologies that aren't meant for him. They're not, but Tim's immediately filled with a panicky need to address every last one of them, because they're apologies that have been haunting Bruce for over a year. Jason should be the one to answer them, to say "it's okay" and "it's not your fault" and "you did everything you could." Jason should know Bruce misses him this much, should know Bruce has so many regrets and wants them to be solved when they can't be.

Because Jason's dead.

Jason's dead, and Tim's just the replacement, the runner-up, the second-place. He's the third Robin that's forever on third base, waiting to run home on a pitch that'll never come; he'll never get the chance.

"It's okay," Tim works out. He's certain his voice is cracking, because he can feel the sodium sting of tears leaking down his face, can feel the tightness in his throat and the way his arms have worked their way around Bruce too.

It's a message from the grave, Tim tells himself. It's what Jason would want and what Bruce needs to hear. But no matter how doggedly he tells himself that, how close he is to believing it, it's only making it more apparent that this isn't where he wants to be, but _it is_.

Because Dad's in a coma, off somewhere in a world separate from Tim like he's always been, and Mom is nothing more than the moment before a sunset, something he's looking back on and wishing he could have just another second to get to know better. Tim's alone. Has been for a long time, and this is what he's been wanting. He's wanted it all his life but not like this. Because this is the only time he can remember someone holding him this way, like he's something too precious to let go, and after all these years of waiting and waiting, it's not even for him.

They've both been cheated out of something, because Bruce is here, convinced he's with the son he can never have. And Tim's here with the father he's slowly realizing he can't have either.

"It's okay," Tim repeats, running it over and over to himself that they're professionals and this is just a moment of weakness that means nothing. _It's nothing. It's nothing._ But he wishes it could be something.

Bruce has calmed down by now, the words fading into strong arms that are still whispering apologies in the form of breaths and heartbeats. "Stay," he says, and Tim's not sure if it's a question or an order or a plea.

"I'll stay," Tim replies promptly. It's another lie. Tim already understands he'll be gone by the time Bruce wakes up, understands all evidence of this has to be burned and buried and never dug back up. Because Tim's certain he'll break if he has to do this again. He can already feel the throb of invisible stitches being torn open around his heart, memories resurfacing of himself waiting in front of a door for Mom and Dad to come home only to realize they'll be gone another week, another month. Another lifetime. By this point, he thought those memories had died, but they're still there. All that's changed is that the actors have switched, that now Tim is waiting for Bruce to notice him like he's noticed Dick or Jason. But they're not father and son. They're not family. They're not anything.

They're professionals that would lay down their lives for each other, that dice with death on a nightly basis, and Tim's asking himself when this happened. Because somewhere in that chaos of switchblades and bullets and screams, he broke his only rule: Don't care about something you can't have.

Bruce is the definition of that rule, and of course, he's the one person Tim broke it for.

How long ago he broke it, he's not sure, but it leaves him here broken too. It leaves him wishing the world could be different and that somehow this was really meant for him. But it's not. He keeps reminding himself of that, because this isn't for him. It's for Bruce, and it's for Jason, and there's only one thing he can think of that Bruce would need to hear, that Jason would want to say, and he's struggling to form the words.

"I…"

He swallows hard, willing the phrase to come but it's stuck somewhere in his chest.

"I…."

It's for Jason. It's not for Tim, so he should just…

"I love you, Dad."

It's the only time Tim will be able to say that. Bruce won't remember it. He'll wake up and think it was Jason when it was Tim all along, so this is the safest place to admit it, to say something that's been on his mind for months but has kept beating down. Because Tim tells himself the words are Jason's, that the meaning is something nebulous that doesn't apply to him. But they're his words. They're his.

They must do something, because the arms tighten just a bit more, close the millimeter of distance that Tim didn't realize had existed between them before but must have. "Stay," Bruce repeats, firm but still unsure. He's not letting go.

"I will, I will," Tim nods against collarbone. It's still a lie. He'll be gone the instant Bruce is asleep, the instant the moment passes. So until then, he lets a blanket be pulled over him and stays, doesn't move. He's waiting for the breathing under his ear to even out, for the grip around his shoulders to loosen, and Tim doesn't even realize his own is doing the same. _It's just until he falls asleep_ , Tim keeps thinking. _It's just until then_.

He wasn't counting that he'd fall asleep too.

* * *

There's a faint drumming pulsing against his head. Tim thinks it's an alarm clock maybe or perhaps Alfred is trying to wake him up again. He's not sure, since the sound's so soft. But it's gentle, a sweet platitude that's normal for everyone but Tim; he's never heard it before—not like this, so he listens. The sound reminds him of the kind things Dick does, of bright smiles and warm hugs that are strong as sunshine. Dick could be the one here, his brain registers. There's _someone_ here. Tim knows as much, but right now, he's too tired to open his eyes, content listening and dozing and guessing who it is that's holding him so close…

"Tim."

A floodgate of memories open up.

It's instinct for Tim to push himself away, horrified, because it clicks that the sound is a heartbeat and the person is Bruce. His boss. _Batman_. It clicks that Tim was supposed to disappear before this happened. Now, there's just guilt mixed in with panic.

He moves fast, too fast, and his breath hitches when he realizes he's about to collide with cement floor. Someone catches him, though, helps him back onto the bed. The person's Bruce. Bruce is awake. How—How long ago did that happen?

Tim wishes he could turn invisible on command, breaking under the odd panic of having been open with someone he shouldn't have. Bruce is his mentor, not his... _not his dad_ , and if there's one thing Bruce taught him, it's how to vanish. It's second nature to disappear and forget, but there are already hands on his shoulders, pinning him there in harmony with calculating eyes. He can't fade away under that kind of gaze, too noticeable and too intelligent, and the quiet lasts too long.

"...It was you, wasn't it? All along?"

It's less a question than a statement, so Tim doesn't reply. Instead, he shrinks into himself enough to indicate that Bruce's suspicion is correct. Tim's the smart one. That's what Dick says, and Tim's questioning how true the words are. If he was smart, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't have crossed that invisible line between him and Bruce that defines them as people who orbit each other and never cross paths. That way, he never would have thought of Bruce as more of a dad than his real one.

Another wave of guilt strikes Tim at the thought. He shouldn't have… Dad's _still alive_. But they've been apart for so long, and Bruce is here, closer and more present than anything else.

Dad's already been gone for what feels like all of Tim's life, so…

Is it so wrong that he wants to move on?

A thumb drags over the bandage running around Tim's head, and the touch brings him back. His eyes snap to Bruce's. There's little emotion there, calm and detached, and the observation helps dispel some of the tension in Tim's shoulders. Bruce isn't angry. A bit somber, maybe. Tired. But not angry.

"I did this?" the man asks eventually, still thumbing linen.

"It—it didn't hurt much," Tim dodges, vision flickering down to his own lap where his hands sit. "You were in worse shape, to be honest—with the toxin and all."

Bruce hums grimly. His hand falls away, and Tim hates himself for missing the contact. "You drove?"

The teenager nods, teasing a loose string on his sweatshirt sleeve. "I didn't crash; the car's still in one piece." Tim can't say the same for a few trash cans, but Bruce doesn't need to know that.

It's the man's turn to nod, slow and methodical. "We'll work on your driving," he offers. Tim's eyes flash up. That—That's something a parent does: teaches their kid to drive. The realization sits for a minute.

"Yeah," Tim breathes, "that'd be cool."

"Not for three weeks, though." Bruce lightly taps his own forehead, a gesture that reminds Tim of his aching head. He almost forgot: Robin'll probably be benched for a while. "You should go back to sleep."

"…right," Tim admits quietly, the awkwardness returning. He's already perched on a mattress surrounded by still-warm blankets, but Bruce is here. It feels wrong to run off or shift onto another one of the beds. Staying feels equally wrong, though, like he's intruding on something. Bruce's eyes are underlined by hollow half-moons, and he needs to rest too.

Bruce gives one of those careful sighs he makes on occasion, hesitant, as he closes his eyes with ambiguous finality. Tim ponders what it means for a minute until Bruce shifts. A hand reaches around him and pulls him in to rest against the man's side, impersonal but…from Bruce, it means everything.

"Stay," he decides calmly, and Tim can feel the air move in Bruce's chest when he says it. It's a simple word. Tim has to dissect it anyway, parse it and split it. Bruce…Bruce knows this is him. He knows it's Tim and not Jason, right?

And yet, the professionalism of crime-fighting is ebbing away. It's dissolving in gentle lights and the lull of someone else's breathing, stable and certain. Bruce is saying this is okay.

Is it really okay to be this close to him?

Tim's still not convinced, but his muscles uncoil just a bit, relax into the inside of Bruce's shoulder. Maybe he's imagining it, but it feels like the grip tightens a fraction, telling him this is fine and that Bruce won't let him fall. He's holding him as if Tim's something fragile that'll vanish the moment he lets go.

Tim analyzes the comparison for a minute, trying to hide the confused smile that's growing more certain with every passing breath, because this… Maybe he and Bruce are more than just vigilantes, more than just partners out stopping crime. Maybe somewhere along the line, Bruce started caring too. Started looking at Tim less as a partner and more…more like a son.

His skin warms at the thought. It could still be untrue, but the arms holding him steady against a rising and falling chest tell him otherwise. Tell him he's safe. Tell him here's where he belongs, dozing between the smell of the sweatshirt he's wearing, the blankets spread over him, and Bruce beside him. It's like being surrounded by Dick and Alfred and Bruce, all three of his favorite people, and maybe this really is where he belongs.

Maybe he's home.

Tim's pulled closer, because he can feel himself dropping off, can feel his eyelids fluttering shut against his desire to stay awake, to cherish this just a second longer. But the warm's so tempting, and his eyelids are so heavy. _This is a safe place to sleep_ , his brain tells him. _Bruce will take care of you._

Awareness is slipping away, the world fading into nothing more than quiet breaths that blend with heartbeats.

Bruce will be gone when Tim wakes up. It's how the man operates, elusive as smoke. That's okay, though, because there's something else. It's probably a statement Bruce thought Tim wouldn't hear, words that'd instead be lost to the world of dreams, but Tim hears them. They're four simple things his mind registers as important. They're important, because they're meant for him, so he latches on and pulls those four things down with him to wherever you go when you're asleep, and he never forgets.

"…I love you too."

* * *

*"And I think I'm failing Physics." - Tim Drake, _Robin #88 (I spent two hours looking for this citation. Please accept. (/OmO)/)_


	4. Belonging

_AN: For those of you who are starting a new school year (and for those of you who already have), best of luck! You've got this! :)_

 _And to Inthenightguest, thank you so much! This one-shot's shorter, but I hope you like it all the same (I'm blushing over here ^/^ *hugs*)_

* * *

 **Belonging**

It's one of those colors Tim is trying to describe. "Green" is what most people would define them as, the pair of eyes Tim is watching so closely. The eyes aren't watching him, though, happily looking at anything else, but Tim is used to that. He's content conjuring up images to match the verdant shade instead: It's one of those rare cool colors that somehow feels warm and inviting, maybe like jade, weathered and softened by age. Tim pauses thoughtfully. _Jade_ , he decides, daring to run a few fingers behind the cat's ears. The eyes flicker to him for just an instant before resettling on the view outside the glass patio doors.

It's a stray that comes by every once in a while. Mom and Dad aren't home long enough to notice the new tufts of fur that traverse the floors like tumbleweeds, and who knows where the spare chicken goes? Tim certainly doesn't.

The cat nips at the tips of his fingers, trying to catch them between soft paws. Tim's used to this game by now, so he plays along as his gaze flits to the clock on the wall. His stomach's been doing flips all morning, all last night too. He's got another ten minutes.

Tim takes a deep breath, leaning back on his hands and appreciating the morning sunbeams sprinkling across his skin. It's a nice morning in September, the kind that still feels like summer with ocean skies and cotton ball clouds framing pre-Autumn leaves. But today's not summer anymore: It's a new day.

A new start.

"I'm gonna have a good time," Tim promises the cat lounging in front of his crossed legs. A tail flicks. "Yeah," Tim nods, "today's gonna be good. All that's left to do is go."

It's nothing major, not the end of the world or anything. But Tim can't fight off the nerves that are building. They're collecting in his stomach one by one like coins in a piggy bank, and to be honest, he's almost expecting that he's going to break open right there on the floor. He holds himself together well enough, though—Self-control is something that's expected for someone of high society, a fact he's come to realize over his five years of life. So, Tim shoves the anxiety down and goes through a mental check-list of all the items he bought the other day: pencils, erasers, scissors, art supplies. It's all there, everything he'd need for a first day of school. He runs over the list about fifty times, but he still feels like something's missing.

Two people are missing.

That's what it is.

Tim sighs and returns to scratching satin-soft ears, fingers running across tabby fur as he tallies the stripes. They mingle and mesh too much to really be countable, so he quickly gives up and begins tracing the bark of a sugar maple outside with his eyes. "It'll be fine," Tim tries again, desperately working to convince himself. If he says it sure enough, it's as if Mom's the one there, whispering honeyed bromides to him, and he tells himself that makes the words more believable. "I'll fit in and have a good teacher and make lots of friends and…" Tim's expression falls. "You're not even listening, are you?"

The cat bats at another one of his fingers, proving his point. Patches of grey fur are growing up around the wood floor like grass as the animal squirms onto its back to get a better shot at capturing Tim's hand.

"It's alright," Tim exhales, retracting his fingers, "I should probably get going anyway." Tim pushes himself to a stand, brushing at the excess fur on his jeans as he swipes his backpack off the floor. On his way out the door, he spies his reflection in the mirror down the hall, himself short enough that nothing but the top half of his forehead is visible. Standing on his tiptoes only gets him to eye level with his reflection, turns out, and Tim hopes he's not going to be the shortest in his class. Is that something other kids notice? He won't be teased, will he?

Immediately, all of his flaws are visible, laid bare in a way no one else would ever spot. No one but him.

Tim's hands are instantly in his hair, struggling to tame it into something more respectable. That's not something that's possible, really: His hair's stuck at an awkward length where it's too long to look styled but too short to look intentional. When was the last time he had it cut? Five trips ago, he guesses. Not two months ago, not eight weeks ago. Five trips.

Is it sad that Mom and Dad's adventures are how he keeps track of time anymore?

Tim's hands fall back to his sides. They hastily shift to clutch the straps of his backpack. He doesn't even know what to do with them, the appendages an extra weight that he's not sure how to handle, but he's fighting off the urge to shove them into his pockets. That's not a polite pose, he's been told.

"Alright," Tim mutters to the door, "here goes nothing."

A small mewl reminds him he's still got company. Tim's eyes drift downward to the expectant animal sitting at his feet, tail swishing behind it like a tide. "Oh, right," Tim quickly excuses, cracking open the door to let the cat free. It slips out smooth as water, and Tim's back by himself in the foyer. He's fighting off the weird urge to call the animal back, to ask if it won't come back when he returns home, because suddenly, it becomes painfully apparent that he's by himself. No one will be there when he gets back.

Tim throws a hopeless glance over his shoulder, but all that greets him are the groans of a settling house, a few fans whirring in the other rooms that he's not bothering to turn off. It's a nice thing to come home to, gentle wind and four blades that stir the cat fur still on the floor, so Tim always leaves the fans be.

It's better than coming home to nothing.

Tim grips the door handle for another minute. He'll be late if he stays, but he's holding out hope for Mom and Dad to come bustling through the backdoor, luggage stacked like flapjacks while the two of them chatter about whatever things they saw during their time in Italy. They won't be back for a few more days. Tim knows that, but he continues to clutch the cool metal burning his fingers. The handle's starting to warm, telling Tim he's stayed longer than he should, so he pulls the door open wide enough for himself to ease through.

"I'll have a good day," he reminds himself, because no one else will, and the door closes behind him.

* * *

A flash flickers, the blinding kind that makes Tim wince. The shot's probably going to turn out bad, and Tim's silently praying there won't be a retake; he's not used to this kind of attention.

"It's really not that big of a deal," Tim manages through the embarrassment. He's betting his face is bright red, but Alfred's politely not mentioning it. The man's eyes are twinkling with amusement, anyway.

"Of course, it's a 'big deal,'" Alfred counters, placing the camera on the kitchen table. ( _Finally_.) "High school is a new phase of life," the man continues, "it's a milestone of sorts."

Tim runs a hand through his hair, flattered smile betraying him. "I've been going to school for ten years already. Heck, the middle and high school are even combined, Alfred: It's still the same building."

"Humor an old man, Master Timothy. These years go by faster than one would think," sparkling eyes turn to the other person in the room, "wouldn't you agree, sir?"

"They do," Bruce grunts mechanically from his spot at the kitchen table. His eyes are focused on the newspaper in front of him, a mug of much-needed coffee at hand, so it's not hard to guess that the man hasn't heard a single word. It's a spaciness that Tim attributes to the all-nighter they just pulled. (Tim feels pretty close to death warmed over himself.) But regardless, Alfred looks pleased at the automatic agreement. It's probably something he's trained into Bruce over the years, and the realization is enough to make Tim crack a full smile. They're a weird family, but somehow, they make it work. Tim can live with that. Well, honestly? He doesn't think he could ever live without them—not anymore.

"We'd best be going soon," Alfred reminds, eyes on his watch, "don't want to be late."

"Right," Tim answers as he readjusts the straps to his backpack and sticks his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. They're almost out the door when a voice comes.

"Have a good day at school."

Tim's head whirls back to find Bruce still at the table, eyes glued to the newspaper as he takes another swig of coffee. It's as if the comment wasn't anything ground-breaking, something normal and expected. It really isn't that special, but to Tim…

A few seconds pass before Bruce looks up to find Tim still there in the doorway. The man sends a quirked eyebrow, harmless and curious, and it's only then that Tim realizes he's been zoning out in front of the door. "Ye—yeah!" Tim hurries to cover, "same to you. Uh, I hope you have a good day. At work, I mean. Not at school. Obviously."

He could slap himself.

It's a good thing Bruce is impervious to awkwardness, the whole exchange resulting in nothing more than the man returning his attention to whatever article he was absorbed in. "I'll see you after school, then," Bruce says over his coffee, "Clayface is still out there, so keep your wits about you in the meantime."

The mention of vigilante work helps Tim snap back into character. "We'll catch him, Bruce. Don't worry." It's what kept them up all night, after all, and those cases are only a matter of time and determination; they'll crack it.

Bruce takes a considering sip from his mug. "We will," he agrees as he sets it back down.

"Master Timothy," Alfred prompts innocently. Tim turns to notice the man's face is graced by a quiet smile, like he's been reading Tim's thoughts the whole time and is happy with what he's seen. Thankfully, the man says nothing more than, "We don't want to catch traffic."

"Right, right," Tim's quick to acquiesce and follow Alfred, but not before calling out something to the man still seated at the kitchen table. "See you after school!"

"After school," Bruce agrees, attention still claimed by newsprint, but—

It's someone to come home to.

Tim likes the sound of that.


	5. What Could've Been, What Should've Been

_AN: This is an AU one-shot in which Tim still figures out that Bruce is Batman, but Jason never dies. Hence, Tim never becomes Robin, and he and Bruce never **really** meet. :(_

* * *

 **What Could've Been, What Should've Been**

Gotham in April is prettier than one would think. Bits of rain are puddled in parts of the sidewalk, sure, but the air is crisp, the temperature is nice, and the sky between the buildings is a sea of post-storm clouds. It's nice to be out in this kind of weather. The trees lining the entrance to Gotham City High seem to agree; the leaf rustle in the wind is all Bruce can hear as he waits outside the school.

Jason isn't expecting him, but Bruce managed to work himself out from underneath enough Wayne Enterprises documents to leave early. A few other parents must've had the same idea. Multiple are cordoning the outside, none of them taking much notice of the fact Bruce Wayne is in their midst: The woman across seems too engrossed in her beachy romance novel to care, and a different man is shrugging at the weight of someone's soccer gear (His kid probably forgot it at home.), completely indifferent. This is one of the few places where all of them are on the same playing field, anyway: They're all parents. Bruce likes that.

The shrill of a bell pierces the silence, and it's as if Moses has parted the pedagogic sea with the way students flood out. Some make their way to the fieldhouse while others mosey about aimlessly, chatting with friends or reading the signs plastered up on the walls.

The parents, on the other hand, have little time for pleasantries. They're already reconnoitering the area with military intelligence. The more jaded of them restart their car engines from the roadside with the attitude of get-away drivers. Honks elicit eyerolls from many of the students, but quickly, good-byes are said, doors slam closed, and tires crinkle against concrete.

It's all a well-oiled machine.

The procedure of it makes Bruce feel more out of place now. (He's not _that_ acquainted with how these things work.) The man cranes his neck in vain effort to see over the swarm. Jason should be easy to spot: The teen's shot up like a beansprout the past two years, making him almost as tall as Bruce is. And yet, the latter can't find the black hair and blue eyes he wants.

Bruce takes a well-meaning step forward, as if the motion will help Jason appear quicker. It doesn't, but what does happen is that it throws off the swarm of students. One of them jukes around him, leaving whoever it is behind to run smackdab into 210 pounds of solid Bruce Wayne. The student lands with an _umph!_ right on his backside. It looks like it hurt, but that might be exaggerated by the way his books go flying. A water bottle too. To make things worse, a TI-68 spews out the side pocket of his backpack and skitters across the pavement. It's already being trampled on.

"Are you alright?" Bruce hurries to ask, already kneeled as if to shield them both from the crowd.

"Yeah," the boy mutters with a wince. He pulls up one of his hands and notes the small debris embedded in his palm. It's bleeding slightly. "Don't worry about it. Happens here more often than you'd think."

Bruce doesn't have the right words to reply, just sets into a pattern of helping him recollect his textbooks. They all look pretty advanced, mostly computer science classes.

"Here," Bruce places the calculator on top of his pile. (A kinder student had kicked it in their direction earlier.) The gesture doesn't do much to hide the fact the screen's cracked clean through. "I can pay for that," Bruce offers lamely, helping the boy to a stand.

"Nah, it's fine," the teen sighs. "My dad can help me out, so don't sweat it, Mr…" It's at this point the student's eyes drift up for the first time. They're a bright kind of blue that Bruce would like more time to appreciate but can't, as they instantly blow wide like the teen's been struck across the back of the head. His mouth falls open a bit as well, and the freshly-collected school supplies fall back to the ground with a clatter.

Bruce isn't sure how to respond. The teen keeps looking him up and down in absolute shock—maybe even horror—and yes, Bruce Wayne is a celebrity but only a financial one; he shouldn't elicit this kind of response from anyone under the age of thirty.

"You're… You're…"

"Bruce Wayne?" the man recommends good-naturedly, proffering a hand.

The teen's gaze follows to the appendage, still dumbfounded, but that new perspective allows the boy to notice all his books strewn (once again) across the pavement. He yelps in some way that conveys embarrassment, shoots back down to recollect them, remembers he didn't shake Bruce's hand yet, rockets back up, and well… Overall, Bruce is flattered by the absolute starstruck-ness.

After a few more movements in which the student expresses both profuse apology and gratitude, the two continue recanvassing the lost items. The crowd of students has thinned, but the boy continues to keep his head down protectively, like he's trying to shroud his face with black bangs. That only makes Bruce more curious. He seems oddly familiar.

"Bjarne Stroustrup," Bruce prompts innocently, gesturing to one of the C++ coding books. "Smart man."

The boy's skin gets redder somehow, and he sheepishly scurries to scoop the book to his chest. "Y—yeah, he's cool." His eyes remain stubbornly pinned downward, even after they've recollected everything and come back to a stand. "Um, thanks for your help."

"Of course," Bruce says, tilting his head to the side in attempt to get a better look at the student's face. (The more they talk, the more familiar he really appears…) The teen still can't seem to look him in the eye, though. "I was the one who got in the way, after all," Bruce tries. "It'd be wrong of me to run off, although I still think I should pay for your calculator. I don't have much money on me, but if I had your name or mailing address…"

The boy shuffles a bit before glancing up momentarily. It's like getting shot with how familiar his face strikes Bruce, like he's seen the teen in passing everyday but is only just now noticing him. The blue eyes quickly flit down again. He murmurs his name smally.

"Sorry?"

"Tim…" the boy repeats, only a fraction louder. "My name's Tim Drake."

That rings a bell. "Jack Drake's son?"

Tim nods silently, vetting his converse like it's a life calling.

"Well, that certainly explains things," Bruce chirps. "I thought I recognized you. You've certainly gotten taller since I saw you last." He pats the boy's shoulder amicably. The touch sends a strange pang through Bruce's chest, though, something like nostalgia and regret rolled into one, like finding something he didn't know he'd lost. He regretfully pulls his hand away.

"How's your father been doing?"

"He's alright. Back on his feet nowadays after the incident in Haiti. Got remarried, too."

Bruce nods conversationally, still distracted by the person in front of him. Tim's attention has moved from his feet to someplace over Bruce's shoulder—anywhere that doesn't involve direct eye contact, but that new direction allows Bruce to better survey his face. He can see a bit of Jack Drake in him around his eyes. Everything else about him from his jaw to his nose is his mother's. Bruce has a fleeting hope he can see him again when he's older, just to know how the features combine on an adult face, if life treats him well in the long run. He seems like a clever kid.

"Um… Speaking of my dad, I should probably get going."

"Right," Bruce quickly agrees, fast if not reluctant. "He's probably wondering where you are."

"Yeah…" Tim quietly slips past him, books still clutched to his chest. The teen says a polite, "It was nice seeing you again," before he's vanished out the gate. Bruce rotates to watch him go, that pang in his chest shifting from nostalgia to heartache, and suddenly, he wishes he had any reason in the world to call him back. He doesn't, though. All he has are the whispering rumors of the trees behind him, like the world is keeping some grave secret from the both of them.

Time must pass Bruce by, as the courtyard is largely empty the next time he thinks to look. The Batman part of him is surprised (He never loses himself so completely to thought.), and he shakes his head to clear the haze.

"Not getting fleas, I hope."

Bruce turns at the sound.

"Alfred'll have a fit." Jason flashes a cheeky grin. It still contains the boyish charm he's always had, but it manifests itself as a devil-may-care handsomeness on his seventeen-year-old features.

"Good to see you too," Bruce dodges flatly, more like Batman than Bruce Wayne now. "How were classes?"

"Fine. Got into a discussion with my British Lit teacher about _Great Expectations_. 's why I'm so late getting out, although I guess we never promised to meet up."

"Never let it be said you don't care about your education," Bruce grunts passively, following Jason's lead as they stroll out the gate side by side. The air's still thinned from the rain earlier, and a few pedestrians are out window shopping. Jason makes a rebellious point to step in a puddle. "Can't believe you're almost done with school, though," Bruce observes with a faint smile. "A senior already."

Jason waggles a finger correctively. "Still have a few weeks left 'til then, old man. It's still April."

"Hardly. It's the 27th."

"Four days is still four days." Jason shoots him a smart smirk as he adjusts the straps of his bookbag. It's the look he gets when he's planning on stirring up trouble. Bruce can already feel the headache. The man doesn't have the energy to be troubled by two things at once. He's still bothered by his meeting from earlier, and he can't stop thinking about it.

"Jason?"

"Yeah?" the teen's attention piques, focusing on Bruce with boyish innocence caught in his pupils. It's expressions like that that remind Bruce how close he came to losing him two years ago, remind him he'd give his life for his son in a heartbeat. Bruce is so grateful he was spared the pain of living without him.

"It's a great name, isn't it?"

Bruce's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

" _Jason_ ," the selfsame teen repeats. "I love saying it too. Just for the heck of it."

Bruce stifles an eyeroll and settles for a patient inhale instead. "I was going to ask if you knew a Tim Drake at your school."

"Tim Drake," Jason echoes, letting the name roll off his tongue. Bruce witnesses the teen shift gears, go from rebel-at-seventeen to Gotham City High School student body president. It's an amusing change if not a drastic one. "He's a freshman, right?" Jason tries before bobbing his head decisively. "Yeah, I've heard of him. Hangs with the geek crowd. He and his buddies run a mean campaign of _Warlocks and Warriors_ , I've been told."

Bruce doesn't bother asking what that's supposed to mean, just moves on. "Nothing else? You're certain?"

Jason looks thoughtful for a moment. "Don't think so," he frowns, sidestepping a fellow pedestrian. "Kid's not the type to join up with the cowardly lot of Gotham, if that's what you're asking."

Bruce waves his hand dismissively. "No… No, I was just curious."

"Whatever you say, B," Jason snorts lightheartedly. The teen continues chatting, covering small things like tests and intel he caught in the halls that may transfer into drug busts during the nighttime. Bruce could listen to him talk for hours. (There was a time, once, where he was certain he'd never get another chance to.) Today, however, Bruce can't seem to focus. His mind is wandering again, lost to the occasional pass of a car or a gust of wind.

It's a few minutes later that Bruce catches sight of something across the street. It's something obvious like a light reflecting in his eye, only it's no light. Just a teen surrounded by two friends. The group is talking harmlessly on the sidewalk, smiling with an occasional laugh. One of them catches sight of Bruce then too. The teen's face falls slightly, blue irises swimming with some emotion, cloudy and sad. Bruce imagines his own expression looks very much the same.

A car passes by in the next instant, cuts off the contact as if symbolic. It feels like it lasts an eternity—maybe a lifetime—in which things might've been different. Might've been meant to be but aren't. Bruce can feel the potential in that shared moment and wonders what life would've been like if things hadn't been this way. Something in the air says he can't know but mourns the loss anyway. Bruce wonders if Tim can feel it too.

It doesn't matter in the end.

By the time the car's finished passing, they've both looked away.


	6. Sick Irony

_AN: Inthenightguest - Thank you so much for the review! I'm in my last semester of school right now, so life's been a little bit crazy. Hopefully I'll have more time to write in the near future. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one! Best wishes for you!_

 _This chapter is for PrettyKitty Luvs U. ^-^ It's a bit of a comedy/sick-fic with milkshakes sprinkled in-I hope you like it! Thank you for your all encouragement!_

* * *

 **Sick Irony**

Tim had no idea.

Absolutely, unequivocally, desert-dry of clues kind of no idea.

Before about five minutes ago, Tim at least had a vague idea, an understanding of what being Robin would be like. Lady Shiva beat him into the ground near every day of his training abroad. Dick did the same before her and even Alfred before that. (Cross that. Especially Alfred.) So, Tim had a faint understanding that being Robin would be a grueling undertaking. Long nights? Check. Sore muscles? Double check. But _this_? This is something Tim did not sign up for.

That only highlights the fact that Dick should have told him. The man must've gone through this at least once. He has to have known. Looking back now, he totally did: The minute Dick found out Bruce had a head cold, he'd given this sort of self-incriminating snort, a bit bug-eyed and thrilled the way people get when they hear the words "cotton candy" or "all you can eat buffet." Tim didn't even know Dick's nasal passages had the capacity to make that kind of sound, but Tim's a detective. In hindsight, it's obvious Dick knew about this.

 _And he didn't tell me._

No, Dick threw him to the metaphorical wolves—That's what he did. Left him completely blindsided like an unexpecting gazelle being mauled by a lion. The two of them will be having words later. Tim's already rehearsing what he's going to say to his older brother, because if the teen thinks about anything else, he's going to have a meltdown.

Usually, Bruce's presence next to him would provide comfort, a sense of stability in the unstable. Right now, though, Bruce is number one on the list of things Tim feels he understands the least. He can't even look at the Batman right now for risk of losing his composure.

It doesn't mean Bruce has vanished, though. The man's still here, serious as ever. Tim can catch the way his shoulders are hunched in his peripherals, that crouch that somehow makes him even more massive when compared with the gargoyles around them. The Bat signal is glowing in the clouds on the horizon, too, but they both know Dick ( _the traitor_ ) can answer Gordon. They've got bigger fish to fry at the moment. That point is emphasized by the stern way Bruce is surveying the warehouse on the other side of the street. There's supposed to be a deal going on in an hour there. They just have to wait.

"No sign of movement," Bruce grunts, and the sheer normality of his voice almost sets Tim off. The teen has to curl his lips inward to keep a straight face, because he can't. Legitimately, in all senses of the phrase, cannot handle this right now.

The juxtaposition is just too much.

The teen hurriedly shoves another spoonful of milkshake in his mouth. It's for the sole purpose of making it less obvious he's about to break into a laughing fit. If he can't hold it in, he can just bark, "brain freeze!" and pass off a snicker as a hiss of pain. Tim might have to: His shoulders are already shaking from stifled laughter, and his diaphragm feels like it's slowly being lit aflame. Tim has a vain hope that the ice cream will keep his lungs from spontaneously combusting.

Bruce sends him a fleeting glance, half skeptical, half confused, before scooping another layer off of his own shake. The man muttered something about his throat feeling sore when Tim pressed him about it earlier, and they made an agreement that Tim wouldn't tell Alfred how ill he actually is if Bruce ate something. Ice cream was one of the few things the man didn't cringe at the thought of swallowing, and ultimately, that decision led them here at three in the morning with good ol' Baskin-Robbins and a package of Oreos.

Tim's still panicking slightly about keeping his act together and crunches another cookie over the ice cream. He's already added far too many, but he needs the distraction.

Bruce shoots him another look as if to say, "Take it easy on the sugar," and Tim wonders. He wonders if Bruce even knows why Tim can't look him in the eye. Has Bruce really been so sheltered, been so completely, utterly ignorant his whole life of the irony? Did Alfred never tell him? Dick? Jason?

The responsibility can't fall to Tim. It can't.

But he almost owes it to Bruce in a way. They're partners—friends, even. The man's in his thirties, so he has to know, right? Thirty years of life. That's a lot of head colds. Allergies too.

Tim's tabulating the numbers when he sees Bruce's shoulders hike again and _oh no_. The teen can hear the inhale, long and drawn out like a melodrama or a death sentence. All tension in the world gathers in that apocalyptic way the world must've felt before the dinosaurs when caput. Tim can feel his own eyes widen, because he's not prepared. He's trying to anticipate when the sneeze will happen, because yes, that will help, but it's like trying to predict a toaster going off. The second Tim thinks it's safe, that maybe Bruce got it back under control, is the second the Batman's head jolts forward and a noise follows.

In the end, the buildup is tragic, isn't worth it in the slightest, but is so, so beautiful because of what it yields.

The sound that comes out is small—a cotton ball hitting the floor kind of quiet—but high-pitched in a way that would make a violinist jealous. It's only a second before Bruce sniffles and rights himself with the dignity of someone who inspires fear in criminals on a nightly basis. The sheer difference between the size of the man and the size of the sneeze is what almost does Tim in. But he's a strong kid, tough as nails. The kind of hardcore where you could dump him in the Arctic and he'd ask for flip flops and a smoothie, could swim to the bottom of the Mariana without scuba gear, gets up on the first ring of his morning alarm. Yeah, Tim's tough. But no amount of training could have possibly prepared Tim for the very existence of Bruce Wayne's sneeze.

That's not what finishes him off, though.

What gets Tim is the deep-throated "excuse me" that follows, totally serious and unaware, and compared to what came before, Tim just—

—cracks.

His shoulders throw forward so fast it's a surprise they don't simultaneously dislocate, and the only saving grace is the fact that Tim doesn't have any chocolate chip cookie dough in his mouth, because he's pretty sure he'd be choking right now otherwise. Bruce's confusion heightens to concern, but he doesn't help matters. He asks something about Joker gas and if Tim wasn't affected, is already scanning the area for someone who could launch a loaded dart or toss a grenade. The seriousness only makes Tim lose the ability to talk because he's laughing too hard for any sound to come out. He mouths a desperate, "No, B," and shakes his head, but that only serves to make Bruce more confused. It's such a serious expression that Tim has to look away for fear of breaking into tears. He has to tell him, but he can't.

How does he even go about explaining it? How does he explain that Bruce with a cold is the single most hilarious irony Tim's ever bore witness to? Like a small child possesses the man only when he needs to sneeze or like—

"Batman," Tim wheezes with a stair-stutter to his voice as if he's driving down a road with potholes. It makes Bruce lean forward in earnest worry. He looks like he's on the verge of dragging Tim back to the cave to check him for nitrous oxide, so Tim has to tell him, has to let him know that—

"B," Tim tries again, and thankfully, he manages to get the words out before completely dissolving into laughter. "You sneeze like a kitten."


	7. The Bat's Out of the Bag

_AN: I've been chipping away at this one on AO3 for a while, and I just finished it the other night. Essentially, it's a Secretary!Tim AU that has a lot more emotions than initially planned. O-O Yeah._

 _Inthenightguest: Thank you so much for your kind words! This one isn't a crack, but it's got that comedy vibe at some points, I suppose. Hope you like it! And you take care as well! ^^_

* * *

 **The Bat's Out of the Bag (At the Drop of a Tinfoil Hat)**

Tim knew full well going into this job that billionaires are their own breed. He remembers that much from childhood: the furtive looks, champagne gossip, and bankroll payoffs. All under wraps. All kept quiet. The memories are old, but they still stand to remind him that the life of billionaires is one big puzzle, a mystery waiting to be solved.

So, Tim knew Bruce Wayne would be no exception.

The thing Tim's realized, though, is that his boss doesn't fit that neat mold of secrets and cover-ups. Oh, there's something off about him. That much is certain. He's almost too nice, too genuine. Too much for a billionaire with a penchant for fast cars and pretty women. Instead, the man invites Tim to Wayne Manor more often than not, a fatherly concern about him. Tim accepts sometimes and even finds he enjoys it there with the simple life and old furniture. But as tempting as it is to accept that at face value—that Bruce Wayne is just a misunderstood socialite, there's still something more there. More than money can account for. More than Tim can account for too.

Being a secretary means Tim's fettered to the man at all times. He likes to think he knows his schedule inside and out, every inch, every second. It's why _this_ continues to throw Tim for a loop.

Some days, Bruce strolls into work with a faint bruise. Stiff joints. Split lip. One time, a broken arm. It's as if every night Tim leaves Wayne Enterprises with a lottery ticket and comes back in the morning to see what prize gets dumped in his lap. Today's model is four, nicely carved scratches on the left cheek. There's been vain effort put into covering them with makeup, and in Bruce's defense, from a distance, it looks pretty believable. Up close, however, not a chance.

"Damian."

Tim glances up from the paperwork he's been shuffling through, eyes razors as he waits to see what kind of explanation his boss has come up with this time.

"One of his cats got me," Bruce mutters, gesturing toward his face where the pitiful injury stands.

The car they're in the back of jolts to a stop at that exact moment, like the universe itself refuses to accept that as a plausible reason. Unless the cat's claws are an inch apart a pop, there's no way that explains it. Tim, for one, agrees. Besides, he's fairly certain Bruce had similar scratches last month ("Cut myself shaving," he'd said.), and Tim's eyes thin just a bit more.

"Cats can be finicky, I hear," the teenager phrases carefully, and he snaps a form to a clipboard with a tad more gusto than necessary, a mouse trap sprung.

To Bruce's credit, the man keeps face the whole time. It's almost amazing how he never cracks, even when at least three of his ribs have over the course of the past two months. Tim's kept track of them all in some sort of obsessive compulsion, because there's got to be an explanation. Bruce always looks a fraction more haggard than is healthy, and it's not uncommon for Tim to catch the man with one eye closed like he's an avid practitioner of dolphin sleep. Who knows? Maybe he is. Either way, there's a mystery here that needs solving, and Tim's nothing if not up for a challenge.

Still, something tells Tim it's not healthy to keep track of your boss' nightly injuries.

* * *

"Dude, that's not healthy," Ives mutters while shoveling a nacho-abomination in his mouth with more judgement than necessary. A collection of plates clatter from somewhere behind the diner counter, the sound ringing as if in agreement, and Tim hides a wince behind the rim of his soda. There's shame in the fact they've had this conversation before.

"I'm telling you _something's up_."

"Yeah," Ives continues, brandishing a tortilla chip, "I'll tell you what's up: You work for Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. _Notorious_ with the ladies. He leaves work fine in the evening, and by morning, he's a little roughed up, a little tired." Ives shoots him a look as if to say, "You know where I'm going with this." Tim does, but he steels his face and digs in his heels.

"Oh, come on, Tim! He's got scratches on his face—"

"And broken bones," Tim reminds.

"So? Us guys are dumb when we're drunk, especially if there are those of the female persuasion about. Why do you think bar fights are a thing?" Ives tosses an orphaned jalapeno in his mouth, expression daring Tim to argue. Tim doesn't, but that doesn't mean he's given up. He _knows_ he's right. Lucius practically proved it at their last shareholder meeting.

The moment Tim mentioned Bruce's "cat-scratched" face to him, the poor soul started sweating bullets like Tim was a taxman come to call. Not even the revenue office elicits that kind of response from him. No. Lucius knows. If only Bruce hadn't swept in then with his purebred charm and perfect timing, Tim might've actually gotten somewhere. He'll have to corner Lucius again when he gets the chance, maybe get Tam and Tiffany on his side. That could work…

"Tim, buddy," Ives mutters through the last of his nachos, looking like the utterly jaded 90's kid he is. "Seriously, let it go. Not everything's a conspiracy. I mean, remember that apocalypse stint you had back in 2012 because of…what was it—the Chinese calendar?"

"Mayan," Tim corrects immediately. "And that wasn't a stint; that was a pipe dream. Big difference. This, though—" Tim jabs at the table for emphasis. "—This is for real. What if Bruce is in deep with the mafia or something? Someone could be blackmailing him and he needs help and I won't be there. Or maybe he's been drafted into an aristocratic cult that murders people or something. Like with owls or—"

"… _Owls_?"

"They're creepy. But whatever. My point is that something's wrong. I can feel it in my gut."

"Maybe you should start filling your 'gut' with something other than grape Fanta." Ives pushes his finished plate forward with both hands as if to add, "Check and mate."

Tim doesn't really know how to counter that (Do red herrings deserve countering?), so he just sets to grabbing his bag and throws a twenty on the table. "Agree to disagree—"

"Until next week's lunch, that is."

"Until next week," Tim parrots. "For now, though, I still think something more's going on, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

"Whatever floats your boat, man. Just don't do anything too crazy, alright?"

Tim acknowledges the sentiment with a perfunctory wave, and he begins pushing his way out the restaurant door. The whole thing sounds conspiratorial. Tim knows it, and yet he's never been more serious about anything in his life, can feel the intuition bursting in his insides like fireworks. He's going to figure out Bruce's secret, vows it right then and there.

Even if it kills him.

* * *

In hindsight, that last hyperbole was in poor taste. Tim would rather not die, and he'd _really_ rather not die the way it looks like he might.

The teenager hadn't even planned on coming to this gala. It was more a last minute thing, Bruce mentioning he'd appreciate the company and that it might benefit Tim to see how the charity banquets are run. Wayne Enterprises puts on enough of them, after all. Tim had agreed it couldn't hurt for him to learn a bit, and to his credit, Bruce was right about one thing: Coming _hadn't_ hurt him.

That doesn't mean the gala hasn't taken a turn for the worse, though.

The woman a table across is currently dumping her jewelry into a sack, fingers shaking as she fumbles with the clasp on the back of her necklace. Tim's half watching the panic on her face, half watching the rifle pointed her way. Everyone is doing the same, struck into this calm type of shock like sheep pre-slaughter. Tim's not sure if the passiveness is from shrewdness or outright fear. Probably a bit of both, although Tim likes to think his is more the former.

His eyes swing over to the other side of the room.

The heist's leader is wandering over linen tables, going in a line as she pours champagne on the head of each alderman and takes a finishing swig for herself. There are enough people participating in the robbery that the woman doesn't have to be too careful, but it'd be pretty easy to flip one of the tables over, knock her off and put up a bit of a fight. A few other party-goers send Tim fleeting looks as if to say they have the same idea but collectively decide they can't pull it off; there's too much risk. So, they sit silently and watch people toss in their Rolexes and wedding rings and lives without a fuss.

The only silver lining is that Bruce isn't caught up in this mess. He left to use the restroom nearly ten minutes ago, and Tim hopes his boss can hide out there until the festivities are over.

Eventually, the teen catches one of the henchmen nod toward the ringleader, a promise of end.

"Well, kids," the leader starts at the cue. "It's been a great time, really. But we're a classy bunch and sure would hate to overstay our welcome." The machine gun that's been resting over her shoulder is swung back down, and she steps back off the tables with a casual air. "Now, this is how it's gonna work: No one move; no one gets introduced to a mag of lead. Sound fair?"

Silence follows.

"That's what I figured," she beams blithely. Even Tim stays frozen as her group inches toward the exit, the burnish of each gun barrel painfully obvious.

Of course, it's right then that things go from your-average-night-in-Gotham to down-right complicated. One of the group members must decide a hostage sounds like a great plan, hand snapping out and grabbing one of the older patrons—the woman who'd been fumbling with her necklace before. Tim talked to her an hour ago; she made a private comment to him that she's been trying to drink less at these kinds of affairs. Bad for her blood pressure, she'd said. Tim doubts being taken hostage is helping her in that endeavor, can read it in the way her face has blanched, and as much as sanity says not to, Tim throws his hat in the ring.

"Wait!"

Five sets of semi-automatics whirl his way, making his heart pump a circuit of cold blood through him. Tim didn't have a plan, not even the ghost of one, but his mouth is an old hand at swinging deals and it tells his brain it's got him covered.

"Take me instead."

…

Tim's sowing his mouth shut indefinitely.

Meanwhile, the leader's eyebrow has popped up in stoic question. She almost looks surprised. "And just who are you?"

"I work for Bruce Wayne," Tim manages, rattled but somehow not tripping over the words. "I'm a close friend of his, like a son, even—" (Well, something like that… Maybe.) "—I get it. You need someone to make sure the police don't shoot you the second you're out the door, right? A hostage is nice and all, sure. But if you want a ransom to boot, the one on my head would be hard to beat."

The ringleader looks unimpressed for a long moment, casting a small glance to the panicked woman in her henchman's care. Their current kidnapee looks on the verge of fainting.

"Fine," the leader mutters eventually. The older woman is tossed back into the fray of terrified guests and what must be her spouse. Tim only has a second to process his success before a burly hand latches onto his elbow and a firearm is pressed against the fabric of his suit jacket. How does the phrase go? Out of the frying pan, into the fire?

The fire of a semi-automatic, more like.

To drive off that thought, Tim's trying to plan (as if he has a choice) how the next day of his life is going to go. If it's eight in the evening now, he can maybe be free by morning sometime. Catch a few z's. Take the day off, maybe. Yeah, that sounds good. He's never missed his jerry-built apartment before, but right now, he'd kill to be there in his sweatpants and feeding his fish that may or may not have gone belly-up days ago. (It's hard to tell if it just likes swimming upside down or has actually kicked the bucket.) What he wouldn't do to have that right now...

A quick yank toward the exit is sadly what Tim _does_ have right now. It's a hint the teen quickly takes, being pulled more than escorted toward the elevator outside the ballroom. The first-floor button's bashed in, the "door closing" chime going off, and as much as six people in an elevator is a bit of a crowd, Tim isn't going to complain. Instead, he tries his best to zone out to the elevator music playing. Whoever chose Bossa Nova as the go-to lift soundtrack has obviously never had a gun pointed directly at their spleen. Just another bone Tim isn't going to pick right now.

Turns out, it's one he doesn't have to.

The elevator lights flit off around the fourteenth floor, same with the music, and the whole cab grinds to a halt. The ringleader spits out a cuss under her breath (It's not hard to make out in the relative silence.), and flicks on a flashlight that sweeps over all of their faces. Tim winces when the beam lances his eyes.

"What's going on, kid?"

"Don't know," the teenager mumbles, cringe permanently fixed on his face; the light's still blinding him. "Maybe the cops cut the electricity. Or it could just be—"

The sound of footsteps landing on the ceiling make everyone jump. Some genius decides to get trigger-happy and fires off a slew of rounds in the direction of the noise. Soon enough, just about everyone's following suit, aiming roughshod. Tim's gone near-deaf from the rattling, something in his stomach jolting from the discord, and he's mostly blind now too as the flashlight's vanished. All he sees are the shifting of shadows, someone slipping into the cab like oil sliding over dark water. Another strobe-flash of gunfire illuminates the chaos for a split second. People crashing against walls. White eyes in black.

Tim recognizes those eyes for what—whose—they are. Any Gothamite would, so Tim tries his best to keep as out of the way as possible, fighting off that chill you get when you're near something supernatural.

It feels like an eternity passes before the lights sputter back on. Two people are on the ground, one next to Tim, one across, and both seemingly unconscious. Another is currently hidden by an imposing, caped figure that beckons memories of things more demonic than human.

Tim stares for a moment, words vaguely processing in his ears. Batman ( _Holy crap_ …) is demanding to know where the group's hideout is. Now that Tim looks, the question's not a bad one: The leader vanished in the tumult, meaning the immediate excitement is over for the most part. Tim just has to wait it out. Then, the regular mundanity of his life will be allowed to resume with the most extreme activities being feeding his maybe-dearly-departed fish and taking two dictations at once.

Either of those sound heavenly compared to right now. He feels uncannily exhausted, like there are too many people here and they're clouding up the space with heat and humidity. It must be true. The air's waving unnaturally, like steam off pavement.

 _Just don't get in the way._

Halfway through that idea, Tim feels more than hears the shuffle of someone next to him. Still-adjusting eyes slip to the henchman who not one minute prior had him at gunpoint. The man's staggered to a stand using the wall for support, and something is heavy in his hand. It takes a moment for Tim to recognize the black sheen of the firearm for what it is, and after that, whatever else happens is boiled down to a short two seconds.

The only conscious thought Tim has within that span is that the gun's pointed directly at Batman's back. That's it.

As soon as that registers, the rest is instinct.

Tim doesn't know how he does it, himself. Even the henchman seems shocked by the full five-foot-six of teenager that he gets hit with like a train wreck in slow motion. Somehow, Tim tackles the man quickly enough that the gun skews and fires off target. The shock of it attracts the attention of a certain Bat, white eyes flashing like magnesium flame as they turn. The henchman's instantly wrenched from Tim's grip and slammed into the floor with more violence than Tim would think necessary.

Tim's not really thinking anymore, though. More just stunned and feeling like he needs to lie down as soon as possible.

"Are you alright?" Batman grunts out, attention stubbornly glued to the unconscious human sprawled at his feet. He looks especially upset about something. Then again, maybe that's just the vigilante mindset, all justice and vengeance at 70 miles per hour.

"Yeah. I'm fine," Tim replies, but the words come out a bit funny because _man, it's really hard to breathe_.

Batman must hear the haggardness in his voice, as the vigilante turns around with alarm. Tim doesn't know why he seems so concerned (Now that he looks closer, Batman has a fresh gash over his forearm, likely from the misfired gun. He should probably treat that…), but the man's gaze locks on and starts burning a hole in Tim's gut like an ulcer.

Maybe it's true that Batman has heat vision. The suspicious lot of Gotham have posited it for years, and that would certainly explain the way Tim's stomach feels like it's melting straight into his intestines.

All Batman's done, though, is raise his hands in a universal sign of placation. "Keep calm," he orders as he steps closer. The sentence contains the emotional acuity of a golf club—not very reassuring—and the man's gaze remains firmly affixed to Tim's stomach like there's a spider there or a scorpion and the vigilante is two shakes away from round-house kicking it off.

Naturally, Tim feels unnerved at that, particularly because telling someone to "keep calm" implies there's an obvious reason not to keep calm. Tim's fingers drift to his torso, faintly curious as to what all the fuss is about, but the world is making it really difficult to move. It just won't stop quivering, and the air must be getting denser, too, because it feels like Tim's forcing his limbs through aspic.

Why that is becomes clear when his fingers pull away. They're coated a weird, glistening red. Kind of pretty if Tim doesn't think too hard about it. Warm. And there's…

Well.

There's a lot of it.

Tim's vaguely aware of Batman appearing directly in front of him, throwing a cape around his shoulders and helping him to the ground. The man's mouth forms words Tim couldn't make out to save his life. He thinks he catches something about an ambulance, maybe even his name—as much as Tim understands Batman wouldn't know that. He doesn't think too hard on it.

Tim's vision just refixes on his own fuzzing hand, utterly dumbfounded as he tries to process what the development means.

It means he might not see a lot of things again. His shoddy apartment. His office at Wayne Enterprises. His childhood home, even.

Looking back, those are all the places that should've come to mind.

But they're not.

Instead, he thinks of a warm fireplace, gentle smiles over breakfast, and the glow of morning sunlight through windows. It's strange considering how rarely Tim's ever been to Wayne Manor, but that's it: That's the only place he can think to hold on to. It brings to mind good memories, lucid pats on the shoulder and the way Bruce's eyes crinkle when he's genuinely happy.

That last one makes something in Tim twist.

For whatever reason—conspiracy, clumsiness, drunken stupor, _whatever_ —his boss has a predilection for getting random wounds. This is a situation where people get wounds they can _die_ from. _Might_ die from. The ringleader got out, too, Tim remembers hazily, might be making it back to the gala to nab another hostage or do the kind of unpredictable things people do when they get desperate. He's struck with a woozy sense of worry at the thought. Bruce is only a thirty second elevator ride away, painfully close, but Tim's pretty sure he can't keep conscious long enough to find out, and…

Tim glances over to the vigilante arranging Tim's hand over the bleeding with precise care. Bruce could be needing this instead.

"…Batman…?"

Tim has the man's attention immediately.

"Make...sure Bruce Wayne s'okay?" What's left of his vision catches Batman tense. The image is quickly fizzling out into hot sparks and empty sounds, and Tim snaps his eyes closed in an effort to focus. "45th floor…m'worried…"

The physical world slides farther and farther out from underneath him, breaths catching more often than not. All he knows is that the person next to him hasn't moved in the slightest. Tim makes to push the man away, tries to lift his arm, but both air and thought cut out halfway through the motion. His knuckles slipping to the floor is the last thing he feels.

* * *

Tim's still on his back when he comes to. There's a muzzy pain on his left side, a thickness to his head like his skull's been drilled into, and everything hurts in that fuzzy way dreams you can't remember still chase you.

A beep sounds somewhere beside him.

Once.

Twice.

It keeps going, and the noise dredges Tim's tactile senses up with it, the slight heft of wires rolling over his arms and a thin blanket covering his chest and legs. The AC air is overwhelming enough for Tim to stave off waking up entirely. He's just struggling to get his bearings and not feel sick to his stomach.

After a long while, he musters the strength to blink his eyes open. The environment wavers into focus: a simple ceiling, dimmed lights, monitors, IV drip. Your average hospital room.

Tim inhales with disgust at the sight but only gets chemical smell. It makes his insides do a nauseous flip, and the pain in his left side grows more pronounced. It's like someone's sitting on his chest and has splintered a rib inward, maybe even punctured something. He tries to shift his limbs, just to check the extent of his injuries, but a numb throb echoes across his chest at the attempt, and an involuntary groan follows.

The noise drives someone to shift in the room. A door creak. More voices.

Instantly, it's as if the someone's multiplied into threes. Split right then and there.

Everything's too hazy to see much more than vague shapes and flashes of metal. It's easy to hear the cluster of noises, though, scuffs of shoes on linoleum, voices blurring together and asking questions Tim doesn't know how to answer; he can hardly make them out. One of them pulls back the blanket over him ( _Cold_.), chilled finger pads skittish over his skin, and the wires over his abdomen shift like they're alive when someone pulls them the right way.

Tim tries to work his eyes shut again to drown it all out.

That's when another person enters the room—He can tell by the beam of light from a door opening, a square plat that burns through his eyelids.

"Tim?" one of them ask, and as much as the teen wants to slip back under the grip of anesthesia, he knows he has to answer that voice. The register's processing slowly, his mind bogged down by analgesics, but Tim knows he recognizes it. That familiar lilt his boss tries to hide because some of Alfred's Queen's English has rubbed off over the years. Just a bit around the way he lets vowels drift. Once that clicks, the teen's gaze journeys to his side, his head following lamely until his cheek meets pillow.

Someone's parked in the chair directly next to him, black hair and blue eyes. There's an audible wrinkle of dress pants on cheap chair plastic when the man leans closer.

"Bruce…?" Tim manages thickly, screwing his eyes shut again to block out the sudden pain. Someone clicks a button, and the wave subsides. "...tha' you?"

One of the doctors Tim can scarcely identify sends Bruce a thousand-word look ( _Don't keep him up late_ , in essence.), and then she ushers her squadron out the door. It closes behind them with an audible click.

"How're you feeling?" Bruce starts smally.

Tim mumbles something pained and noncommittal in answer. Both his head and tongue feel heavy, and the raw feeling in his larynx makes forming words a challenge. "Wha' happened...?"

There's a long silence, like Bruce is warring with himself over how to address the query, like he wants to let Tim rest more before saying anything. Bruce is a pragmatist to a T, however. Tim knows it. "You were shot," the man decides, straight to the point. "The police were able to intervene before anyone else got hurt. You were the only injury."

Tim can't really recall what happened. With the way Bruce describes it, though, it definitely sounds fortunate. It leaves Tim wondering what all about him is injured. His mind still feels strangely distant from his body, lost somewhere in the web of monitor beeps, so he can't really tell. All that's obvious is that breathing feels like someone's lighting matches under his lungs.

It's as if Bruce can hear the thought, as he elaborates, "The doctors had to take out your spleen, but they said you should be fine. Just need some vaccines, antibiotics. And _a lot of rest_." The way he stresses the point brings a new question to the foreground. There's a whirl of chemicals in the air that kick Tim in the gut any time the nasal cannula lets them, crawls up Tim's skin like fire ants.

"...Long do I'ave ta stay?"

Bruce drones with sympathy in his voice. If the man knows anything about him, it's that Tim's hated hospitals ever since Dad passed away; they're bad memory incarnate. The chemical smell's the one thing he's never been able to forget.

"You'll be here for a few more days of observation, maybe a week," Bruce explains, wringing Tim's hand reassuringly. "After that, you'll need another month to recover at home. Limited work. No driving. Showers only until your stitches heal." (It sounds like he's got the pamphlet memorized already.) "Alfred and I think it would be in your best interest to stay with us until you're well again, although the decision's ultimately yours."

Tim bites back the nausea that returns at the idea of being trapped here for days on end. It's like a prison sentence, but maybe it won't be so bad because _Wayne Manor. That sounds nice_.

"Glad you think so," Bruce agrees, because Tim must've mumbled that bit out loud somehow. "We'd be happy to have you."

Tim thanks him smally, trying not to get dizzy at the word. He'll probably regret accepting the invitation later, but he's too tired to care about his pride right now. All he's thinking about is how nice it'd be to go somewhere with warm blankets and Alfred's cooking. Tim almost dozes back off at the thought, but he's uneasy enough to work his eyes back open. When he does, he catches the worry trapped in the wrinkles of Bruce's forehead and around his mouth. Tim wonders how long he's been here; it's still dark outside the window.

"...you okay?"

Bruce's face softens faintly. "Yeah," he answers, fingers brushing Tim's hair back off his forehead. The touch feels warm against his skin, and Tim fights the urge to lean into it. "You just gave us a scare. That's all."

Tim hums sleepily at that. His eyelashes keep flickering over his vision, satin-soft, and Bruce's hand is still combing his hair into place. After a careful moment, the fingers drift away. Tim registers Bruce's troubled expression when he does, but the teen notices something else, too. He almost thinks he imagines it, but no: There's a small streak of red spotting Bruce's sleeve right around his forearm.

Tim watches the stain for a minute, dazed. He thinks he should tell Bruce that he's bleeding (It looks like an expensive shirt.), but mid-thought something just...clicks.

Everything about that night hits him like a shovel or a brick or a well-sized semi. All of it from Batman to the gunshot to his last words before passing out. Tim suppresses his embarrassment at that last one if nothing more than to keep his brain focused on the main point of his epiphany.

Tim knows one other person who got injured tonight: a graze on the arm. The longer Tim's muddled brain runs the numbers, the more certain he gets. The bruises, cracked ribs, exhaustion. It all lines up.

Tim analyzes Bruce as intensely as one can while being only partly conscious. The man looks harmlessly curious at the gaze, maybe a touch nervous. "What's wrong?"

"...your arm…."

Bruce's focus flashes to his injury, the hastiness of the action betraying him.

It tells Tim he's right.

The teen continues to observe him with a blank look, and slowly, Bruce seems like he's connected the same dots Tim has. The man opens his mouth as if to offer an explanation, an excuse, but the wound is condemning, and there's nothing he could say; he snaps his mouth closed, expression serious.

Blue eyes meet again, one holding his breath while the other remains silent.

"You're him…" Tim murmurs, a way about him that makes it seem like, somehow, he's known the truth all along. He's considered the option before. Mulled it over until his theory was crushed by a newspaper report citing Batman and Bruce Wayne at two different places simultaneously. It's obvious now, though. Of course Batman would make a point to hide his identity like that. Tim's cursing himself for not having held on to the theory for just a little while longer, although maybe it's a good thing. The idea was so short-lived that he never mentioned it to Ives. It'll make ground control easier; Tim's pride can take the hit.

After a telling minute in which Bruce has remained uneasy in his seat, Tim sighs, long and slow and tired. "...won't tell," he promises, scratching casually at the skin around his IV. "Think that goes against my contract, 'n I like my job."

Bruce's shoulders relax at the humor. Still, he continues to look slightly uncomfortable. The man's mouth twists after a long lapse of silence, and when he speaks next, his words are heavy, Batman-esque despite coming from Bruce Wayne's body.

"I'm sorry."

Tim's eyebrows furrow in question, attention floating back.

"I was emotional and distracted. It could've cost you your life tonight."

Tim digests the sentiment slowly. Bruce saved his life; he shouldn't be feeling guilty. "...'s'okay, Bruce."

Bruce shakes his head. "No, it's not," he affirms. "I could have lost you. I won't let it happen again."

There's really nothing Tim can say to that, can't as he's afraid addressing the sentence might make his face turn red. It's a lot more emotion than is common for Bruce. Tim's pretty sure tonight was responsible for galvanizing that change, and if his face wasn't red before, he's pretty sure it is now, as he's running over his last words like a broken record. Tim's gaze instantly flits to the sky outside the window as if to visually slap the memory away. It doesn't do much good. In the end, the world has to take pity on him and provide a distraction: A beam of light sears the night, a sign they both recognize swimming in the clouds.

"They need you," Tim says quietly, watching the Bat signal through half-closed eyes.

Bruce hums in reply, almost regretful, like he's not sure if he should leave or not. Tim would rather he stay, but he knows Bruce better than that. In true press conference fashion, the CEO never mentioned if the group responsible for the heist was arrested. The signal could be about that.

"I'll be back soon," Bruce says eventually, voice serious as he moves to a stand. It's easy to see him as Batman the more Tim thinks about it, what with the large frame and firm grimace that shadows his face on occasion. The revelation of what all he faces on a regular basis causes a lump to rise in Tim's throat.

"Bruce?"

The man looks back from where he's already slid the window pane open. Some of the Batman-ness dissolves. "Yes?"

"Be careful...?"

"...I will."

The promise assuages some of his worry, gives Tim little reason to keep his eyes open, and he instantly finds himself drifting. "Meeting with Wayne Foundation tomorrow… No black eyes."

"Alright."

"...no blood either."

Tim can practically hear the smile. "Sure. Anything else?"

It's difficult to think with the dregs of anesthetic pulling him down, but Tim comes up with one more, if nothing else but to keep Bruce here a moment longer. "...feed my fish?"

That garners attention. "Fish?"

"Name's Alvin."

"Alvin. Got it."

"'e's a beta. Red. Don't forget."

There's the sound of what Tim can only guess must be a humored sigh. After a beat, there's a hand resting over his own, strong and steady, followed by a statement that carries on the cusp of sleep. "Get some rest, Tim. I'll be here when you wake up."

And despite all the revelations of that night, Tim still knows Bruce well enough to recognize a promise.


	8. Rocking Chairs

_AN: I know I just wrote a delirious Tim in the last chapter, but there weren't enough cuddles, so, here we are: We got ourselves a sick!fic. (Also, this is just a note to admit that "halate" isn't a real verb. (It's a noun. Just not a verb. :() I'm using it anyway and making it cognate to the word "halation" because English needs a verb like it.)_

 _Inthenightguest: Thank you so much! I'm glad you were willing to give the last AU a shot! I have another AU I really want to write sometime, so hopefully you'll enjoy that one when it gets written as well. :) Best wishes for you, and thanks again!_

* * *

 **Rocking Chairs**

There was an old rocking chair in the Drake estate. Tim remembers it well. The glow of the fireplace in the study would catch along its frame in winter, the sun in the summer sprinkling across handsome oak. Not too dark. Not too pale. Like sand that got kissed by a wave, the grains drifting in a chevron as if trying to chase the ocean.

The chair's probably in storage now. Maybe catching dust, coated by canvas and neglect. Tim imagines it still would look the same regardless. It'd been around a long time before it fell into the Drake's hands, he'd been told. Dad said it was an antique. Something from Pennsylvania, maybe Virginia. Tim's forgotten by now. The specifics don't matter at the end of the day. The chair itself is what he recalls, the sinuous spindles that bent around the back for ergonomic's sake and the curl of each leg.

Tim remembers being young and staring at it sideways from the floor, the scritch of the rug rough against his elbows while Mrs. Mac dusted. His neck would hurt from being pulled back—just to get a glimpse of the object from a different angle.

Dad never sat in it.

Neither did Mom.

Tim tried a few times when they were away, slid comically down to the far back end of the double-scooped seat the moment he plopped down. It was too large to be practical for someone his size. That much was obvious by way the very design of the chair seemed at odds with him. The spindles dug into his shoulder blades any which way he turned, agitated bone and muscle. He even tried draping his feet over the armrests, starfishing sideways only to get a crick in his back from the position. The boy quickly deemed that way incorrect too.

 _Maybe rocking chairs aren't meant for children_ , Tim concluded one day, staring the furniture piece down over a bag of fruit snacks. It would be fine if that was the case. What bothered Tim was that he wasn't sure how the chair was supposed to be used by anyone. It just seemed so horribly uncomfortable.

That could've been the point of antique furniture, though. To be something you point to and spit out the history of like bric-a-brac or knick-knacks or something else that's sole purpose is to crown a mantle place and fill gaps in conversation.

Tim supposed he could still make use of the furniture piece somehow. Repurpose it to suit a child's whims.

That's really why Tim remembers the chair. Sure, he didn't get the premise of a rocking chair, but the design of it was interesting enough. He could scramble up to stand on the seat, imagine he was at sea and the chair was his boat. He'd pack on supplies for the journey, bits of blankets and pillows that he'd arrange like a bird building a nest. Some of the supplies he'd toss over in faked panic when a "storm" struck, a shift of weight here and there that Tim matched with the flicker of a flashlight to mimic lightning. To make it even better, small stars adorned the chair's headpiece, carved in with decorative care. Tim would chart the ocean of the room by those constellations, would scribble in small islands in a journal, take notes of the navigation routes that carried his ship around the cape. At one point, he even had it that the whole boat was destroyed. He'd thrown a pillow down to the floor as jetsam then and made the jump to safety with a happy scream.

Next thing he knew, he'd washed up on an island that was the area rug. There were pirates on the other side of the sofa, and they'd search the beach at night in hopes of shanghaiing stranded sailors. The rocking chair quickly became what he'd hide behind when they came looking, the spindles bush bramble he'd cling to until they passed by like a rolling fog.

Tim can't remember if he ever beat the pirates or not. He can't even remember the name he'd given the island or the faces of the marauders he'd magicked up in his mind. It's all been washed away by the ebb and flow of time, just like the rocking chair in storage collecting dust. Tim doubts he'll ever see it again.

Still, he regrets never being able to ask Dad what the purpose of the chair really was...

* * *

Tim's a bit confused where he is.

No, not a bit. A lot.

He's a lot confused.

All he really knows is that it's sweltering. The kind of heat that you sense on your skin when you're sunburned so badly it hurts to move, hurts your muscles and your head. Tim's certain the vague ache in his bones isn't from the sun, though.

There's a combination of things that factor into that conclusion. He's distantly aware of being wrapped so tightly in blankets it feels suffocating, his limbs pulled so close to himself that it's drawing threads of sweat out of his spine and others along the taut skin of his forehead. The teen's certain a fireplace is on, too. He can make out the gentle hum of electricity through the walls and the air, can feel the way a ceiling fan redirects heat back to tease the hair around his face—the only part of himself that isn't encased in blankets.

Tim almost cracks open his mouth to say something. (He's certain there's someone nearby.) The moment he thinks to, though, a cool cloth brushes along his forehead and the back of his neck. The gesture itself almost drops him back to sleep.

He still works his eyes open, just a smidge, just to see. His vision's fuzzy enough to make contours halate, but the Robert Havell hanging above the fireplace informs him he's in one of the Manor's sitting rooms. His muscles instantly relax at that. (He hadn't even realized he'd tensed up.)

"You still with me?" a voice rumbles. Tim's eyes drift back to find Bruce here with him. The man's face is hovering just above him, skin russeted by the firelight, and the chips of his irises catch the flickering flames. His eyebrows are pulled together in concern.

Tim hums something from the back of his throat in reply, returns his forehead to what he now understands is the hollow of Bruce's shoulder. It sets in that he must be sitting on the man's lap, Tim's knees bent around the armrest of a chair, but in all honesty, he's too tired to protest, maybe too delirious. "S'hot," he mumbles, sighing against the cashmere softness of the dress shirt the man's wearing. Alfred always gets the best kinds. It feels like heaven against his skin.

"I know," Bruce sympathizes, pulling a slip of blanket tighter around Tim as if the teen didn't just say he was sweltering. "You're running a fever."

Tim can believe that. His head's swimming, and his breaths feel more along the line of pants. Bruce shifts a bit after a moment, rolls his shoulders as he reaches for something. Tim wonders what the man's looking for, but then a thermometer's worked under his tongue and that answers the question. Tim's too tired to do much more than clamp his mouth around the device and wait for the beep. It comes after what feels like an eternity of fireplace whir and the feeling of Bruce's lungs expanding against Tim's neck.

"Still high," Bruce grimaces when he takes the thermometer out. Tim can't decipher what number that indicates from Bruce, but it must be pretty bad as directly after he sets the device aside, Bruce returns his arms around him. The man pulls him just close enough to be comforting instead of smothering, fingers settling in the hair at the nape of Tim's neck.

Tim must doze for a bit after that, all tension melting out of his limbs. It takes a long time before his mind registers that gravity's shifting in his chest. The teen writes it off for a second, but then he realizes his feet are swaying slightly from where they're dangling off the armrest. It's a weird sensation, like being on a boat rocked by waves. Only Tim's in the sitting room at Wayne Manor, so that's not right. Maybe his brain's really going. He should probably mention that. Might need a hospital.

"'ruce...?"

The man makes a gentle sound of acknowledgement.

Tim opens his mouth to explain his tipsiness only he's not sure how to put it into words. He figures he should check to make sure it's really vertigo (It'd be the most comforting vertigo he's ever experienced.), wriggles an arm free from the blankets to push himself up using Bruce's torso as support. The man seems concerned but lets him, wary eyes trained on the back of Tim's head as the teen tips his attention in the direction of the floor. The haze clears enough for him to make out the stitches in the afghan slipping off his shoulder, but it takes longer for his vision to weave together enough to suss out the chair they're in. He thinks maybe one of the legs is too short ( _Would explain the rocking_.), although he already knows Alfred wouldn't let that stand. Tim quickly discovers the swoop linking the bottom of the legs is by design.

"What is it?" Bruce asks behind him, voice quiet like he's trying to put him back to the sleep with the question.

Tim muzzily rotates his head back, feels fatigue pinch his shoulder blades at the shift. "'S'a rocking chair..."

Bruce relaxes at that, ah's in understanding in that downy way people do when children state the obvious. The palm of a hand directs Tim's head back into the man's shoulder, and Tim's grateful for the gesture; he's pretty sure his vision was gonna go if he kept upright another second longer.

"It's to help you sleep," Bruce explains, resituates the afghan around Tim's shoulder with painful care.

Another moment later and Tim's vaguely aware that the chair's moving again. His bangs brush faintly across his face in time with the sway, and even as he's dropping off, Tim can conclude this is the most comfortable feeling in the world. Way better than the awkward chair he remembers being so confused by growing up. He's not confused now, though, just tired and letting himself drift off to the realization.

 _So that's what rocking chairs are for._


	9. When Golden Goes Grey

_AN: Rookblonkorules gave me the idea for this way back on the third one-shot of this compilation. It's high time it got written. ^-^ Thanks, Rook!_

 _Inthenightguest: Aw, thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the previous chapter! :D_

 _The title for this chapter comes from Joanna Newsom's song "Peach, Plum, Pear." Comic references for those who are interested are Robin #5, Robin #159, and Identity Crisis #5._

* * *

 **When Golden Goes Grey**

"Code ten on channel three. Available officers please report."

"Mark Eight, code ten, go ahead."

"Tricorner on Second, reported eleven-six, building collapse, break—"

* * *

 _A few glasses sound in the distance, the scent of alcohol and expensive food drifting through the room. Even considering his new status, this kind of upper-class restaurant isn't the sort of thing Tim Drake is used to. For Tim Wayne, though, it's something expected. Still uncomfortable but…expected._

 _"What's it like?"_

 _Tim's attention is pulled from a neighboring table to refocus on the girl in front of him. A calculating flash shines in Zo's eyes. She's been dancing around the topic in polite a way as possible for the past few minutes, but Tim knows what she's been meaning to ask._

 _"What's it like—being adopted, I mean?"_

 _Tim picks at his food with his fork, trying to phrase his answer in the best way he can. The best way for his parents, the best way for Bruce, for himself. Life's become so complicated anymore._

 _"It's pretty weird, I guess..." He hesitates. "No, I_ know _it's pretty weird. My parents will always be my parents. But Bruce. He was a father figure to me in a lot of ways before both my parents..."_

 _A glint of metal, deadened eyes, cold skin._

 _Tim bites back the memory. It's been over a year, but it still feels like Dad's death was just yesterday, like he could pull out his phone and replay the same conversation they'd shared as if Dad was still alive and…_

 _He was really trying at the end. Maybe he and Tim—Maybe they could've gotten things back on track. Maybe if they'd had a bit more time._

 _But that's all their relationship is anymore._

 _"Maybe."_

 _A question mark lost in dark days. Unanswered calls from Dick. Flipping through scrapbooks only to find there isn't much evidence that Tim and Dad even existed in the same universe, let alone the same family. There weren't much memories. Aren't much memories._

 _Then there was Steph, and Conner…._

 _At the end of the day, Bruce is the only stable thing Tim has. Maybe Tim's the same for Bruce: stable. He'll never know, though, because with Bruce, it's always "maybe" too._

 _Until recently._

 _Zo's eyes flash again, have picked up on the fact that Tim is uncomfortable. She's shifted a bit as if to change the topic, but Tim continues before she can. "So, having Bruce adopt me—when everything was going so lousy in my life—mostly, it just... It made me feel wanted, made me feel good."_

* * *

A series of clipped coughs pull Tim back to consciousness, drag him back to himself. Where he's back to, though, Tim can't remember.

The world is dissolved in acidic shadows that shift slick as ice while he's trapped underneath. It's a fanciful thought, something brought about by dull throbs and a world drowned in black, but Tim thinks that's really where he is: He's floating somewhere in aqueous space, surrounded by water that amplifies a distant sprinkling noise, shuffling and echoing like something swimming past him. _It's water_ , Tim thinks. Only…there's no humid thickness that accompanies water, just dust in his throat like he's only breathing dirt, like soot's settling thick on clammy skin and he's—

He's running out of air.

That's when it hits. Whatever things swimming by him are falling, silt shaken loose from above him and pelting the ground in sizzling cracks. There isn't any light, because there is no light; nothing's shining through the ceiling above him, one made of rocks and debris from the cave-in he's only vaguely recalling.

One of the buildings… The foundation was still unstable from the earthquake two years ago. Trying to stop someone, had a hostage and set charges, and Tim—He was barely able to calculate a place that might hold up before the whole building went down.

The detective part of him is demanding to find out the size of the pocket he's in, tabulate how much air he's got left, but his body says it's more pressing to check himself over first. His back stings like fire. His head aches too, and maybe his leg… He can't really tell anymore. To be honest, there's not much that Tim _can_ tell. He's on his back, his brain registers, gathers as much with the earth matting his hair and sitting cold against the cuts of his uniform. There's something sticky growing up around the open patches, and Tim already has a feeling what it is.

He's alive, though.

He'll take what he can get.

Tim moves a hand to his forehead, the only signs of the motion the pinch of Kevlar at his elbow and the chill of his glove against bare skin. A finger shifts to his earwig, and his sight crackles in monochrome bars as the night-vision flickers on. The new array of green and black is an improvement of sorts, would be if it revealed good things, but no.

It's warning him that this is bad. There's two feet of clearance above his head, just enough to sit up and nothing more. The ceiling is a patchwork of beams, the groaning metal cradling untold pounds of rocks like a guillotine that's waiting to come crashing down. It'll hold for a while, though. It has to.

Tim swivels his head from where he's on his back, not daring to move too much in case the structure's still temperamental. He's close to the exit on the west side. He remembers as much, and the tracker on his uniform—

Tim's hand finds its way to the "R" emblem on his chest. It's still in one piece. Bruce will know where he is. He just has to wait it out.

A set of fingers slip down to the ground, enough for the teen to push himself up and get better vantage. It's in the middle of that shift that a sharp sting rockets down his body straight into his toes. There's a faint tension there that Tim doesn't like, mixed in somewhere between the hazy pain and the question of how much time has passed. His vision flickers to where his leg is. It's a battle to keep his eyes pinned there, because a sizeable gash is torn through the muscle, a mesh of flesh and paper-white bone that beams beryl in the night-vision. Tim would say the wound's a field day for Alfred, but euphemisms don't sit right when it's his body that he's getting a peek inside of. It's enough to make his stomach churn.

Tim's head finds its way back to the floor again, trying to arrange thoughts into a plan, but they're flickering past too vividly, too quick. There's a brightness to them that hurts, and Tim's not sure if trying his comm or treating his leg should be the first order of business. Another bought of coughs tell him that his air-filter is a good place to start. It takes some careful finagling with his belt, but a mask eventually slips over his face. _Don't panic_ , he reminds himself. _Limited air. Hyperventilation won't help with that._

Nothing seems to be helping anyway.

His comm is useless when he tries it ( _Buried under too much rubble_.), and twisting a tourniquet around his thigh has Tim's head spinning. In the end, all that's happened is that he's swapped bleeding out for being even more lightheaded, and he's getting cold fast.

That's what they don't tell you.

When oxygen's running thin, when you're under piles of dirt and stuck in a stage of passing out, the air turns gelid. Like standing on a mountain. Like lying in snow. The chill is freezing a path through the sweat beading along Tim's skin. There's too much of it, actually—the sweat. More than normal, and his stomach's clenching with nausea, too.

Tim knows those signs, but there's nothing he can do. None that he can think of, anyway. It's getting hard just to string ideas together, all thoughts clashing like a Newton's cradle, back and forth, back and forth. Tim makes a conscious attempt to count the heartbeats sounding in his stomach, more backs and forths, and he blinks and sees Dad for a second—

("I worry about you, Tim.")

—before the man's gone again, leaving Tim with snagged breath. He's pinning all his focus on a crevice in the ceiling where two rocks are acting as keystones above the beams, uses the visual to ground him while he gets his breathing under control again. He needs his inhales to be shallow and steady. Just enough to fill his lungs. But his lungs aren't filling. Not enough. Not at all. A haze is haloing his peripherals now, and his back aches and aches on the uneven rocks below him. The pain in his leg is getting unbearable.

There aren't many things that Tim is afraid of. He's been through this before once, early on as Robin. He and asphyxia are old friends, so the dry click of his trachea as his lungs heave for more oxygen that simply isn't there—It's not an unfamiliar feeling. It's not what he's afraid of.

What Tim's afraid of is the combination. It's being alone. Being trapped. The uncertainty of what will do him in first is eating him alive, and really, the slowness of it is the worst part. It's just him and his thoughts. The sound of labored breaths are heavy in his ears, the occasional shuffle of debris. There's just… There's not much to steady him here. All he has are regrets that saunter through his brain. He thinks of Dick for a minute, mourns the fact he won't be able to crack another joke with him or shoot the breeze late at night when crime is low. Alfred comes up too, the Titans. They probably won't find out until morning what happened. It might take that long for Bruce to find him, and…

Bruce.

This would be the second Robin he's lost.

Distantly, Tim feels a spark of dread kindle in him. He knows he should stay awake. _Keep measuring your heartrate_ , the weaker, more resilient part of him demands. _You'll let Bruce down if you die here._

But then Dad's voice slips into his head again, closer than last time.

("Maybe it'd be better if you stayed in tonight.")

And that sounds nice.

Tim misses him—Dad, and it's cold here. Dark. He wants to go home.

A cloud of dirt streams down to the ground. It slips right past his head, but instead of dust hitting rock, it sounds more like a rustle through grass, through leaves. It's odd. He can feel his mind drifting, losing track of injuries and common sense, but Tim's still surprised when his vision whites out, blanks, and softens to somewhere brighter.

A wind is on his face, Tim realizes vaguely, the comfortable kind that comes on hot summer days, and the sun's out, a white disc in a blue sky. Maybe it really is summer. That's what it looks like, feels like. He remembers Smallville this way.

That's where Tim is now, he thinks, sitting upright on the fence outside the wheat field of the Kent family farm. The wood's pricking the backs of his thighs through the jeans he's wearing—what he'd been wearing back then.

Tim's been here once before. On a summer between a mission with the Titans. It was August at the time. Must be the same now too. Everything looks identical, preserved: The wheat's about ready for harvest, tall and gold and smelling of soil while the apple orchard lining the horizon is shaking a brilliant green in the breeze. Krypto is rolling in the dirt at Tim's feet.

"Think I'm gonna have to give him another bath," a voice laments from Tim's left.

It's no surprise Conner's here. He was here that summer last year as well—before things went south for the both of them. Tim doesn't take his eyes off the dog that's squirming happily on his back, all floppy ears and a wagging tail. His fur is ruined.

"Probably," Tim agrees after another minute. The sunbeams are bright on his face, something the teen's enjoying, and if Tim really was here, if this really was the memory he recalls, he and Kon would wander back to the farmhouse in another hour or two where Ma Kent would be rolling out dough for some pastry or another that she's been wanting to try for years, has just been needing more people in the house with eager stomachs—as she put it, and later that night, Tim would glance in the vanity of the small half-bath to find more freckles on his nose than he remembers having before he came.

At least, that's how the memory goes, anyway.

"I've missed you," Tim admits quietly. "All of you."

He's still watching Krypto. The dog snorts some of the dirt off his snout before bolting into the wheat with a happy bark. Stalks swallow him up like a sea, the tops glinting richly in the sun until the whole field's nothing more than a golden haze of heat and earth. The sky looks so wonderfully blue.

"We've missed you too, Tim."

Kon's speaking for a lot of people when he says that—Mom and Dad, maybe. The fallen heroes, fallen comrades. People Tim couldn't save but almost did. They all come through the sonorous voice of Tim's best friend. He sounds just like Superman, Tim muses quietly, when he talks like that.

Krypto yips from out of sight.

"What are you gonna do?" Kon asks, leaning forward a bit as he anticipates his dog tumbling back out. Tim's doing the same, but now he can see his friend in his peripherals from the shift. He hasn't aged a day.

"You can go back, if you want," Kon poses, affect calm. "Or you can stay here. Either way."

Tim stalls by moving his hands beneath his thighs to take the brunt of the wood splinters. His calf hurts for some reason. "I have a choice…?"

Kon nods slowly, a verbal ellipsis in the conversation. A bird chirps as it flits down to sit on the street wire running the length of the road behind them. Other than that, the only thing Tim can hear is the wind through the fields. He can't even hear himself breathing.

Krypto reemerges sometime later. His coat is covered in pastoral detritus, chunks of leaves and wheat kernels. They all crinkle when the dog shakes them off and starts trotting back to the farmhouse. When Tim's eyes follow the path, he notices Ma Kent's on the front porch. She's waving at the three of them with a smile on her face.

Kon slides off the fence. It's the first time Tim's really looked at him since he's been here. "Do you want to stay for dinner?" his friend offers, wiping the dirt from his palms.

Tim wants to stay. He wants to so much it hurts. The teen can already smell bread and jam through the open kitchen window, the house, barn, and silo all fogged from a light that's dusting the air, and time runs differently here, like everything stays the same, is pristine and perfect, and each day that follows is much like the last. "What do you think I should do?"

Kon's already heading toward the house, walking backwards to keep eye contact with Tim, and it makes his steps stilted on the dirt path. "I think someone wants you," is all he says before turning.

Tim can't think of anything to say in reply. He's still sitting on the fence, watching the back of his best friend as the young man tracks dirt up the white porch steps, and there's a tug at Tim's navel, a pull that's telling him he has to make a decision. The teen forces his gaze back forward like the field will have the solution. Stalks continue to sway in the wind, the trees too. It's so peaceful here.

That's when the bird on the wire chirps again, a stubborn reminder. There's a flap of wings as it takes off and rides the wind.

Tim doesn't need to turn.

He already knows what kind of bird it is.

The teen takes a small breath, tries to remember this place so he can take it back with him. The smell of the dirt, the heat of the sun, the sound of the breeze. He never wants to leave, wants to stay with someone who knows him better than anyone, but Tim slides off the fence anyway.

He has to go back. For the people still left behind.

Tim's feet hit the ground, and by the time he's looked back up, the gold of the field flashes. It intensifies to the point where its blinding, burning, and makes Tim snap his eyes closed. He backpedals once, losing a grip on gravity, and all sensations fade out until Tim's back hits ground again. The shock of it jars his chest. His leg, his spine, his head—It all burns, makes him grit his teeth. The pain spikes when his lungs pitch forward, clamor for air, because somewhere along the line his breath was ripped out of him and he's choking on the need to replace it all at once.

"Robin—!" someone's yelling, desperate and thunderous. The voice sounds so familiar, and everything hurts so much that Tim latches onto it, utilizes it and doesn't let himself slip back down. "Robin, look at me!"

An order.

Tim forces his eyes open. Winces when his pupils shrink, because his mask is gone. Everything's so fuzzy and painful, but certain things come into view. A grey, starless sky. Tops of buildings that huddle around him. Tim's not in the air pocket anymore. Probably nearby above ground. He can see smoke billowing in the sky overhead from what was likely the building collapse. A brume of blue and red lights flash along the plume, limn Tim's sight from where he's on his back on concrete. Police. Ambulances. The siren whirs are coming in clearer now, and Tim listens to them as they fade in and out. The chill of the night is soporific.

"Robin!" repeats the voice from earlier, more urgent. It hurts the back of his eyes to do it, but Tim forces them to roll in the direction of the speaker. The multifarious angles of light cut Bruce's face in two from where he's leaning over Tim, one half of him dark, one half light, and the lit half is broken by red and blue contours that underline the tenseness of his jaw. Soot is splashed along the bone there as if Bruce has been digging through rubble.

The man inhales funny when Tim looks at him, something like a shudder as if he's been stabbed through the chest. Tim's never heard Bruce make a sound like that. He thinks there's something wrong, but his mouth doesn't work right when he tries to ask.

Bruce's face twists when Tim attempts to. "Don't!" the man snaps, timbre too high, panicky and sharp. It makes Tim flinch instinctively. Bruce must notice he doesn't sound like himself also, as the man repeats his order, probably going for calm but hitting closer to begging. "Don't—" Bruce swallows, shaking his head. "—Don't do that."

Tim still wants to ask what's wrong, though. Something obviously is, because Bruce's hands have been hovering over Tim's torso like he's not sure where to touch without hurting him. Everything already does, though—hurt—each injury on the bend to fading into sleep. The crisis is one that Bruce must get over quickly, as a few seconds later, Tim registers a forearm wedging beneath his shoulders. Shifting the muscle, the bones. Tim holds his breath in anticipation of Bruce sliding a hand under his knees, waits for the throb in his calf to start anew.

Despite the semi-conscious haze, it remains a surprise when Bruce's shadow crumples over him instead.

The man doesn't say anything, just presses Tim close under his chin, weaves fingers through the hair on the back of the teen's head to steady him. Tim can feel each exhale from that perspective, uneven and shaking beneath Bruce's ribs, beneath Kevlar and other things that are supposed to be bulletproof. The raw emotion is unsettling.

Tim's too exhausted to move, however. He's still trying to piece things together, to draw up something to say or do, but his mind isn't obeying him, his body either. He's so cold, even with the proximity, and everything floats away too fast, helium thoughts. Tim's eyes are already slipping back shut. The faint strain of muscles in his back untenses, goes limp. The whir of the sirens fades out. The pain too. All that's left is the sound of Bruce's breath hitching in the distant quiet.

"I thought I'd lost you."


	10. Attrition is the Worst Way to Go

_AN: A plotless crack drabble in which Bruce is tired and Tim is suffering with the hiccups. (I have no excuse.)_

* * *

 **Attrition is the Worst Way to Go**

The longer Bruce stares into it the more certain he gets: This fridge is an absolute labyrinth.

It's some dogma of life that all refrigerators are that way, but the one in Wayne Manor takes the cake. (Or five cakes, maybe six if you rearrange the turkey a bit.)

Bruce has no idea why Alfred needed this model in particular, because honestly, it's got better tech than some of the things in the Batcave. It's a mystery why the thing needs a tablet embedded in the door. (Okay. Maybe not that much of a mystery. He's caught Alfred watching _Hell's Kitchen_ on it more than once.), but really? Samsung makes phones. They have no right to make fridges, especially ones that are more byzantine than practical.

Bruce lets loose an impressively long sigh, effectively signaling his surrender, before snatching a protein shake from the inside of the door. There's nothing Ensure Plus can do to fade the bruising he's pretty sure is blooming over his left shoulder, but there's a certain satisfaction that comes with cracking the band off from around the cap. Yep. Just him, 350 calories, and the sweet peace of 4 a.m. silence.

The fridge door swings closed to reveal that's far from the case.

Bruce blinks once, face scrunching like a disgruntled pug's, before stating the obvious. "You should be in bed."

Tim doesn't say anything from his spot at the kitchen island, just points to one of the items hanging from the pot rack above him, then to the kettle on the stove.

 _Pot, meet kettle._

"Fair enough," Bruce replies, curious as to why Tim couldn't just say as much. Maybe he's finally hit the troublesome part of the teenage phase or, more optimistically, is just too tired. The latter sounds more like Tim. He's in his boxers and a sweatshirt like he at least entertained the idea of going to bed.

Bruce flops onto the stool beside him, not bothering to effect grace. "Can't sleep?"

Tim shakes his head. He looks oddly focused as he zones out on the azaleas sitting outside the kitchen window. They're a gorgeous sort of sunset purple—definitely eye-catching, but Tim's never been one for horticulture.

Bruce takes a swig of his shake. He's blandly invested in figuring out what's going on inside the teen's head, but the quiet is too nice for him to interrupt with conversation. The birds outside are still asleep, the sky a dusty pink, and Bruce even cracked the window open earlier to enjoy the honey-scent of the rhododendron leaves. It feels nice to breathe it in. Bruce wonders if that's why Tim wandered down here. He glances back to the teen over his beverage, wary, because now that he thinks about it, Tim's been way too quiet. His chest isn't moving either. Not even slightly.

"Are you holding your breath?"

Nod.

"...Why?"

Tim blinks at him, looking thoughtful for a second as if pondering how to charade out an answer. He makes a vague sweeping gesture that Bruce greets with a look of abject bamboozlement before giving up. "Hiccups," Tim wheezes out in an exhale. "Think that might've done it, actually."

Bruce grunts out an, "Ah," and thus, peace is restored to the universe.

That is, until ten seconds later when someone squeaks next to him. Tim's shoulders pop up followed immediately by a groan of defeat. The teen wilts onto the counter like he's just been told his pie didn't win the fair this year, his cheek resting lamely on the marble. "Shouldn't have eaten so much when we— _hic_ —got back," he laments. "I've tried everything. It won't go away."

"You tried the water trick yet?"

Tim waves blindly at an empty glass Bruce notices is still on the counter.

"I could try scaring you?"

Dull eyes flicker his way. Tim looks like death itself, even as he hiccups again. "Right now, you could strike me with lightning, and I'd— _hic_ —be too tired to flinch. "

Bruce feels pretty much the same. All he can offer is a weak shoulder pat in consolation. "It'll pass."

"But what if it doesn't? You know how long the longest case of— _hic_ —hiccups was, Bruce?"

The man knows where Tim's going with this, so he injects as much disinterest as he can into his reply. "Wasn't it sixty-eight ye—"

"Sixty-eight years!" Tim exclaims, hands flying up in sleep-deprived distress. "I'd be in my— _hic_ —eighties. That's an eternity! I could die before I'd be freed from— _hic_ —this!"

"Or," Bruce reasons (One of them has to be sane about this.), "it'll last another ten minutes and then you'll be fine. Besides, it's a Saturday. You can sleep in."

Tim instantly melts at that, faceplanting back onto the countertop. He lets his arms dangle off the side of the counter like a ragdoll. "Sleep. That sounds so— _hic_ —nice."

"What on earth are you two still doing up?"

Tim doesn't bother turning, but Bruce does to see Alfred in all his well-dressed, well-rested glory as he strolls in from behind them. The man shoots a sharp look Bruce's way, a diacritic mark over Bruce's shoulder injury. Bruce is quick to sidestep that topic entirely, even if it means throwing someone else under the bus.

"Tim can't sleep."

Alfred's expression shifts to genuine concern. (Nightmares aren't uncommon in the Manor.) Bruce is quick to shake his head, and Tim clears the mystery instantly with a hiccup—as much as the teen looks all the worse for it.

"A particularly nasty case of it," Alfred guesses, to which Bruce nods. "Perhaps I should get the smelling salts. An old Pennyworth cure."

Tim's nose scrunches at that, still oozing misery. "'m fine. Don't wanna be more awake than I have to."

"That crosses off the lemon trick then as well." Alfred sends Bruce a fleeting look ( _I've done all I can do._ ) before setting about making breakfast. There's something particularly awful about being awake long enough to hear the birds start chirping outside, like consciousness is sin itself, but Bruce decides that he might as well wait it out until his partner looks less miserable.

In the meantime, Tim's diaphragm is running with the opportunity to make itself known. Alfred makes desultory conversation to cover for the random squeaks, and although Bruce would rather be passed out, he participates here and there. He's pretty sure Tim appreciates the effort. The hiccups sound borderline painful, but Tim seems to wither less against the countertop each time.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred asks softly ten minutes later, retrieving a pan from the pot rack with notable care. It doesn't even clink. "May I ask you for a small favor?"

"What is it?"

Alfred looks pointedly at Bruce's side, directing his attention to the teenager there. Tim might as well be dead to the world, totally quiet in what looks like sleep. Must've dozed off a while ago: He's drooling slightly on the counter.

"Would you mind clearing your son off the kitchen island? It would expedite the breakfast-making process."

Bruce snorts in humor, sweeping some of Tim's hair off his face. The teen doesn't move an inch. He stays that way even when Bruce pulls him up enough to loop an arm under him (Tim's heavier than he remembers.), and Alfred watches the display with a disconsolate sigh. "On second thought, perhaps I'd best skip straight to preparing dinner."

"Probably for the best," Bruce tosses over his shoulder. "Goodnight, Alfred."

"Goodnight, sir."


	11. Brilliantine

_AN: JokerJunior!Tim whump from Bruce's POV. :( The expected **Trigger Warnings** apply here. _

_In happier news, I'm putting up a poll to figure out which one-shots you all would be interested in reading! I've got a few options to choose from, and you can pick up to two of them for the poll. I'd love to know what you think! :D_

* * *

 **Brilliantine**

The stare is penetrating, intense. Bruce isn't sure what to do with it. It's better if he tries to avoid it, and truly, he does his best to. The task isn't easy when the eyes keep following him, memorize each key-click Bruce makes at the computers or the way Bruce walks away from behind.

They're odd things—the eyes, nearly iridescent. Sometimes Bruce sees them blue. Sometimes they're green. Once, even, when Bruce caught them quickly enough, they were dusted in cochineal, brayed corpses that shone rich as rubies.

Bruce doesn't return the gaze much, though. Hardly exists in the same space as the boy.

Alfred is the one who keeps watch of him. Gently grasps for little hands before leading Tim around the Manor. Bruce can hear bare feet pad along the floorboards early in the morning, footprints left on the polished sheen that only show when the sun hits them. Alfred settles Tim down in the study—what used to be his favorite spot—or directs him to the grass outside the veranda so that he can admire the bees between the flowers.

Alfred thinks the boy enjoys the fresh air. Tim never tells them otherwise.

That's just how he is now: At the end of the day, Tim is nothing more than the picture of obedience. When they set food in front of him, he eats. When they put him to bed, he sleeps. A perfect puppet shorn of its strings. It's why Bruce knows right now that if he tells Tim to sit, the boy will do exactly that.

And Tim does.

He situates himself in the desk chair Bruce gestures to without hesitation. The glow of the Cave's computer banks shine along white sclerae, the rectangular monitors showing so cleanly on them that Bruce thinks he could work purely off of Tim's eyes. But that's not what Bruce wants to do. He only wants to feel Tim nearby and nothing more.

Tim is in Bruce's care for the night while Alfred rests. Bruce isn't sure how he feels about being in charge of the boy, hasn't been since they found him ten days ago.

( _Saved him_ , they all say. Just to feel better about themselves.)

(They didn't save Tim at all.)

Sure, the boy looks better than he did before. The emerald in his hair has been reduced to mere strands, an occasional glint in the black, and Alfred bathes him daily, still working to coax the white off porcelain skin. Alfred says it does Tim good, and Barbara agrees. They need to reteach him that touch shouldn't translate to pain. But then again, that doesn't seem to be the problem with Tim. It's as if he's numb to any sensation at all.

Bruce scrolls upward on the computer, the mouse wheel grinding in the quiet.

Tim watches.

They're still looking for a doctor. For a specialist or anyone who knows more about mental illness than they do. Finding someone that Tim could be honest with about being Robin—about having _been_ Robin—cuts the potential therapists down to nil.

Bruce still looks through the options anyway, mask pulled back to reveal a tired face. Clark recommended someone in Metropolis, and her file is impressive. Trustworthy. Bruce tries to imagine the way she would interact with Tim, but it's only a superficial image. Sessions of silence. Medleys of drugs. Bruce winces internally when his brain conjures up electrotherapy, and he scrambles to block out the memories.

 _We have Tim back now._

 _He's safe._

Bruce has to keep telling himself that.

The man leans back fully in his own chair, curves his neck along the head, before titling his gaze the boy's way.

Bruce is dimly surprised to find that Tim's not looking at him. The child's face is poised to the side, the line of a nose with irises tracing something in the air that Bruce already knows doesn't exist. It's something Tim does often: stares at nothing when he's not staring at Bruce. The gaze is always just as intense.

"Tim," Bruce says.

The boy doesn't respond. He doesn't anymore—not to that name. Not even to Robin.

"Come here," Bruce restates, and a head flicks in his direction, the motion so precise it's unnerving, unhuman. Like the action should snap his neck.

Orders are the only thing Tim reacts to anymore, and Bruce wonders at night if it was Joker who taught Tim that or himself.

The boy comes to him all the same, gait a bit awkward. He picks his knees up more than he used to, more than he should, and the pinch behind his kneecaps pulls the soft fabric of his pants. ("Loose and nonrestrictive," Barbara had recommended while holding the pair up, a guilt in her eyes that she shouldn't have but they all do anyway. She'd taken out the drawstring.) The shuffle of cloth echoes in the choked quiet, Bruce measuring the steps, perfect, equidistant, until Tim is positioned next to him with expectant eyes that make Bruce want to look away.

It's not Tim's eyes, really. That bother him.

It's not his eyes at all.

The thing that bothers Bruce is the grin.

Tim just… He just never _stopped_ , and the expression looks so horribly wrong. Lips pulled apart to reveal bared teeth, a smile that ceases past the appling of his cheeks. His eyes are unaffected, an owl's gaze on a boy's face, and it triggers something in Bruce's gag reflex whenever he sees the paradox. Not on Tim. Not on someone he was supposed to protect.

Bruce doesn't know what to say to him. He already knows Tim won't say anything back. The boy hasn't spoken since they brought him back to the Manor, led him here like a little lamb, still sweet in some ways, already slaughtered in others. What's most painful is that Tim doesn't look at any of them with malice. Just blank eyes and a rictus that looks more tortured than joyful. It hurts that Bruce can't remember what Tim's normal smile looked like anymore. Part of him thinks he never knew at all.

The thought digs, so Bruce turns his chair until he's facing the boy, bends forward to rest his elbows on his knees. They're eye-level now, and Bruce forces himself to see Tim for what he is. He imagines that if the boy was himself, he would flinch a step back, would build distance between them like he was so oft to do.

Tim doesn't do that now.

He merely tilts his head in interest.

The intrigue still sparks there when Bruce leans closer, just enough that their foreheads bump together, touch, and there's an efflux of heat where the skin meets. Small clouds of exhales pass in the space between them. No words. Just existing.

Tim's irises are blue-grey, Bruce can see now. A thunderhead beckoning a storm. They don't blink, don't betray anything beyond curiosity. Bruce can see his own reflection in Tim's pupils, a mirror, and there's something ironic there that stings.

It keeps Bruce up at night. It keeps him from facing this.

Tim isn't Tim anymore.

They've scrubbed the physical damage off him with thankless determination, wrung the boy out and bleached the stains away only to find they've left him empty and blank. It's almost worse than before, but they can't go back now. They can still stitch him together, can rip off the worn patches and sow back in brilliantine, the way Tim used to be—should be, because they… They can still _fix_ this. They can.

It still stands that they never should have had to.

"I'm sorry," Bruce breathes, barely even a sound. It's a catchall for an army of apologies that agitate the air between them, a salvo in the silence more than a salve. Tim's breaths margin the space too, puffs of warmth heaved out from little lungs, and Bruce doesn't think he can handle looking at the boy anymore. He wants to see Tim, but there's no one there. Nothing. He's apologizing to a nothing for an everything.

"I'm so sorry," Bruce repeats, hoping beyond hope that the words mean something, and right before he closes his eyes, Bruce imagines that the grin falters and the thunderhead breaks into rain.


	12. Drinking Games

_AN: This is the fic that won the poll! Thanks to everyone who participated. I hope you all enjoy it! ^^_

* * *

 **Drinking Games**

Whoever invented buttercream frosting deserves all the good in the world, Tim decides as he weeds another icing rose off the top of his cake. Desserts are the only thing keeping Tim sane at these galas anymore. The saddest part of that statement is that it's only been a week since Bruce informed the press of his adopted son.

One week.

And Tim has wasted away to this.

Most of the craze surrounding the newest Wayne has already died out, leaving Tim crouched over a bar counter with thankfully-unpinched cheeks and a plate loaded with the night's latest confectionery. The cake must've cost at least a thousand by the number of tiers it has. Bless the poor bakers who made it, because they probably would be crying with the way Tim is dissecting his slice into piles of fondant, icing, and cake. Tim isn't even doing it because he's in the mood to be picky. Far from it. The cake dissection is purely because he is so, so bored.

Tim instantly promises himself that he's going to smash his face into the next slice he gets, appearances be damned. At least it'd liven up the night.

As if in reply, a hand slams onto the bartop next to him. "Another _dur_ -ink, pleasee!"

Tim quickly stuffs a forkful of icing into his mouth to keep his groan internal. _Not this guy again_ , he pleads. _Anyone but him._ Naturally, though, Tim turns, and Murphy's Law spits in his face.

The person next to him is the same sop it's been all night. ("Calvin," he'd slurred-introduced himself three drinks ago, sloppy handshake and all.) Embarrassingly, the more martinis the man orders, the more clothing he undoes. At first it was just a loosening of the tie, but by now, his cummerbund is dangling awkwardly off his elbows like it's a mink stole and he's a wealthy duchess guilty of having murdered her husband.

Tim's nose scrunches when Calvin deposits himself onto the neighboring stool. (Tim doesn't deserve this. No one does.) "I'mm gonna do it," Calvin declares to the bartender wandering by, some young guy who looks just as miserable as Tim does about the whole thing. "I'm gonna ask her."

"I'm sure you will," the bartender replies wisely, brandishing a new glass before mixing together something that looks notably weaker that a martini—probably an addington. Tim's betting Calvin's too far gone to even notice the color difference. The bartender, however, isn't taking chances and quickly scampers off. He shoots Tim an apologetic look as he does so. ( _Good luck_ , it says.)

"Ya don't think I will, do ya?" Calvin accuses Tim instantly, hunching over the bartop close enough that Tim can smell the alcohol on his breath. The teenager swallows down his cake to respond, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Calvin bangs his palm on the counter again, sloshing the contents of his untouched drink. "Well, I don't have ta take this!" he belts, twizzler-ing himself up from his seat. "I'll show ya!" And without further ado, he zig-zags his way into the crowd, one drunk man against the world.

Tim watches him go with wide eyes, praying for the sorry soul the man has taken an interest in. That's when Tim notices his adoptive father across the ballroom. Bruce is chatting up a new pair of pretty eyes near the orchestra, laughing in a way that looks so genuine that it's obviously fake.

Tim's face sours, and he forces himself to turn back to his dessert. He knew Bruce was different at galas. It keeps up the playboy persona. It's necessary. But most importantly, seeing Bruce laugh and talk about his bad golf score makes Tim break out in hives. (Honestly, Tim knows full well Bruce has excellent golf form. Just the other night some street runner brought a five-iron to a fist fight and earned himself a club sandwich.) It wouldn't be so bad if Tim didn't have to don a monkey suit and tag along, but the teen's been the main attraction for the past few charity events, so it's not really up for debate.

Tim sighs and stabs at a layer of fondant. The sugar rush fizzling in his bloodstream makes this all worth it, he convinces himself. Really, though, he has no clue how people get through these things year after year, let alone how they actually keep coming back.

Tim scrunches his mouth and side-eyes the spilled alcohol glistening on the table. _That's probably how._ What better way to get through an upper-class game of chicken than with a shot of liquid courage? Tim sighs again, debating whether or not to give it a whirl. Ultimately, he pulls the glass closer, staring into it as if it has an answer for him—which unless the answer is a lemon wedge, that'll be a no. Tim pulls his head back to glean the room for any staff that would call out a sixteen-year-old on sneaking a sip. No one's around.

"To my only friend," Tim toasts to his puddle of cake, raising the glass before moving to down it. Tim's skin instantly crawls when a shadow falls over him.

"Think they forgot to give you a soda, sport," a saccharine voice oozes as none other than Brucie Wayne leans around to greet Tim and smoothly removes the glass from his grip. Tim falters for a second, immediately scouring the floor for a pentagram or a transmutation circle, because for all intents and purposes, Bruce has appeared out of thin air. But here the man is like a demon summoned, beckoning a bartender over to order a coke with his playboy grin in place.

"Oh, Brucie," the man's date croons, coming over to Tim's other side. (Tim's starting to feel claustrophobic from the sudden onset of attention.) "Can't you let the kid have a little fun?"

"He can have all the drinks he wants when he's twenty-one, Debra," Bruce says lightly, but the look he sticks Tim with is nothing if not a parental warning. It's weird, because Bruce has been leaving Tim to his own devices for the past week. Looks like alcohol is the only thing, quite literally, off the table.

The observation sparks a brilliant idea in Tim's mind, thousands of little fireworks that promise much more entertaining galas in the future. The teen takes a second to bask in his own genius as Bruce proceeds to all but solder a new, alcohol-less glass into his son's hands.

Debra's been observing the display with a cheek resting fondly on her knuckles. "Never would've pegged you for a helicopter parent. Just make sure to leave him some breathing room, okay?"

"Don't worry," Tim cuts in with a devious smirk directed at Bruce. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Debra laughs innocently and starts tugging her suddenly unwilling quarry away. Tim waves them off with his glass, not even flinching when Bruce's "Brucie" act fades into a tamer variety of the batglare. He manages to mouth one thing to his son before being swallowed up by socialites: "Don't you dare."

* * *

Tim dares.

He's been daring every gala, every chance, for the past month. The only time Tim isn't pushing the limit is when events are hosted at Wayne Manor, and that's because of one man named Alfred Pennyworth. Instead, Tim resorts to sneaking drinks at every other venue. Naturally, it doesn't work, as Bruce appears per usual, and Tim's beginning to love the extra attention.

"What a good idea, kiddo," Bruce praises as he swoops in from behind and steals the champagne glasses out of his son's hands. "Getting drinks for Ronnie and I. You really shouldn't have."

"Oh, but I did," Tim counters with an equally fake grin. He manages to make it sound as if he wasn't planning on slinking away to figure out what Dom Pérignon tastes like. It's not that big of a deal, really. Tim's learned by now to have a backup plan, and sleighting drinks off trays has been old news for a while.

The teen makes to slip away when Bruce shows that he's also learned something over the course of the past month.

"Wait a second. Why don't you let me introduce you two?" Bruce proposes. He doesn't leave it up for debate, as he immediately traps Tim there by locking an arm around his shoulders, both hands still occupied by champagne glasses. It's a wonder how he doesn't spill anything.

"Veronica Vreeland," a redhead introduces, accepting the drink Bruce hands her. Tim's seen her around before, because she's usually first in line to weave her elbow around Bruce's. Tim's never had the pleasure of a conversation before, however. "Bruce and I are old friends, although I was surprised as anyone to hear he'd started a family. I trust you've been keeping him on his toes."

Tim beams. "You have no idea."

Veronica hums consideringly, glancing between the two of them like she knows there's something going over her head. She decides to put off asking for the moment and goes for the kill instead. "Sounds like a story I'd love to hear some time. For the moment, though, I was hoping I could have your dad alone for a little while, Tim. Bruce's dance card fills up fast these days."

Bruce looks mildly betrayed (She's unknowingly abetting Tim's cause.), but the teenager of the group pounces on the opportunity. "Sure thing," Tim says, extricating himself from Bruce's clutches. "I'll be around if you want to talk more later."

Tim soaks in the image of a foiled Bruce getting dragged to the dance floor for the fifth time that night, the man's playboy persona coming back to bite him. It's a small victory, because the teen knows he'll be seeing him again in about thirty minutes when Tim makes his next move. Until then, the teen bides his time, making small talk and testing the hors d'oeuvres. A few familiar faces are here, so Tim feels confident in knowing who to chat with and who to avoid. Tim's in the middle of talking to a nice woman named Buffy (He's forever indebted to her for introducing him to panna cotta.) when Tim excuses himself to put his second plan into action.

It's not too convoluted, honestly, but Bruce squints over his dance partner's shoulder anyway when Tim re-enters his view with an innocuous slice of cake. It's been Tim's go-to from day one. Basically harmless. Except it's not.

That's because Tim paid the caterer to add rum cake to the menu.

It actually smells amazing. The bundt cake's been laced with confectioner's sugar, nutmeg, and probably cinnamon, too. _So this is what success smells like_ , Tim thinks to himself as he flops down at an open table. He tries to identify which part is most saturated with rum, but ultimately just decides to take a stab and see where it gets him.

Tim flinches when his fork connects with—not his rum cake—but his regularly scheduled torte.

"Looks good," Bruce comments from where he's now magically sitting next to Tim. The appearance is expected, but Tim gawks when the man digs into Tim's rightfully-earned spoils, having switched out Tim's plate with lightning-quick reflexes. Bruce nods when he takes a bite. "Mm, definitely good. Not enough rum to get you drunk, though, Tim. Nice try."

Tim scoffs playfully before slumping back in his chair and picking at his dessert. A few stragglers are still having a go at the dance floor to some Bobby Darin hit, and it's easy to lapse into a comfortable silence, watching people swoon over each other and enjoy themselves. It's the most time Tim and Bruce have spent together outside of masks in a long while, and Tim can't hide the fact that he's secretly smiling.

* * *

"I think we both know this has gone on long enough."

"What do you mean?" Tim asks, feigning innocence from where he's lounging on the camelback sofa in Bruce's study. In truth, he doesn't think his gala gallivanting has gone on nearly long enough, but Tim will play the 'pure child' card until he has better footing in the conversation.

At the moment, it's month number two of Tim running Bruce's playboy persona into the ground. Tim's distantly surprised it took the man this long to address what's been going on at each and every charity event they've attended, because Bruce has never mentioned it when they get home or even when they're out as Batman and Robin. Apparently, Tim's most recent ploy of siccing Selina Kyle on him got Bruce to reconsider laying some ground rules.

Bruce links his fingers together over his desk, expression business-like and closer to the way Tim knows him in reality. "It's become apparent to me that we need to talk about some...things."

"Uh-huh," Tim drones, kicking his feet up onto an ottoman and crossing his arms.

Bruce stalls. He obviously was expecting Tim to give him more to work with, because they engage in a brief staring contest that's interrupted only by the crackle of the fireplace. "Well," Bruce restarts a minute later, still awkward and tentative. "I've been thinking that, in light of recent events, perhaps I've been somewhat unfair to you."

Tim's mouth almost falls open in pure shock. Maybe it actually does, because Bruce gives him a moment to recover before continuing.

"I understand that fundraisers and black-tie events aren't exactly the most enjoyable. Believe it or not, I often feel the same myself. Nonetheless, I appreciate you having attended as many of them as you have. So, with that being said…" The man reaches down to riffle through a drawer, letting the gesture speak for itself as he produces a bottle and sets it on the desk.

"What's that?" Tim asks blankly, sitting up straight to get a better view; he wants to ensure that he's not seeing things.

"A peace offering."

Tim didn't know bottles of chartreuse were common peace offerings, but he's too stunned to argue the point. The silver cap suggests that it's an older bottle—expensive, and Tim just barely manages to glance up for further explanation.

"My father was a collector, actually," Bruce reminisces a hint of fondness in his voice that Tim hasn't heard before. "I've never had any myself, but he always liked this kind, I remember. Had it in hot cocoa of all things when he went on a ski trip in France."

Tim's brain is still ten steps behind, so his involuntary systems take over and ask the first thing that comes to mind. "Your dad skied?"

Bruce laughs smally at that, an authentic, clear happiness ringing. "There are pictures somewhere around here. Alfred tells me he wasn't very good but loved it anyway." The smile fades a fraction, bittersweet as Bruce turns the bottle over in his hands. "You would've liked him. I imagine he and my mother would've wanted to meet you very much."

Tim's eyes widen faintly, expression somber but attentive. It's been two months, but he hasn't really thought of himself as a Wayne before. It was more a convenience, a legality that put Bruce's mind at ease. The humbling nature of having another lineage to live up to sobers the air.

Bruce inhales sharply, signalling a conversation shift. "Anyway, I figured he'd be fine if you sampled some of his collection. I'm fine with it as well, so long as Alfred or I are there to supervise."

It takes a second, but Tim snorts out a smirk, light-hearted. "Debra was right, you know. You really are a helicopter parent."

Bruce looks genuinely confused, as if he's unfamiliar with the phrase. Tim just shakes his head and moves closer to accept the bottle Bruce offers. "1937, huh?" the teen whistles as he seats himself on the desk beside a stack of books. "Nice."

"It ages in the bottle, too. Should be pretty good."

Tim hums thoughtfully at that, inspecting the label and debating if he should tell Bruce the real reason he's been giving him grief the past two months has nothing to do with alcohol. The teen decides against it, but at the very least, he can cut Bruce a break. "So," Tim poses carefully, "what you're saying is that if we waited, say, five years from now—just as a hypothetical, arbitrary number—this stuff would taste even better, right?"

Both of Bruce's eyebrows rise, like if he wore glasses, they'd be slipping down to the end of his nose. "I suppose so, yes."

Tim hums again, a tad louder. "Okay then," he resolves, handing the bottle back to a surprised Bruce. "I'll tell you what. You can hold on to that for another five years on one condition: When I _am_ twenty-one, you have to promise to share it with me."

Bruce analyzes his son for a good while, looking like he wants to smile again but only lets it escape through his eyes. He settles for ruffling the boy's hair instead. "I think I can promise that."

"Cool," Tim grins, bolting off the desk with a lightness to his step as he turns. "Now, where were those ski trip photos you were talking about?"


	13. Gossamer Rain

_AN: Whump incoming. This plot is an extension of_ Red Robin #23-26 _, but you can understand what's going on in this one-shot just fine if you haven't read those. No trigger warnings apply here other than canon-typical violence._

 _Inthenightguest: Thank you! :D I got that idea as soon as I read_ Detective Comics #829 _when Bruce threatened to lock Tim in the Batcave after he joked about getting a martini. Sneaking drinks would so be a Tim thing. That boy. xD_

* * *

 **Gossamer Rain**

 _It's like standing in a pool of light, like looking at the sun. There's no smell, just pure oxygen as if each inhale is filtered through a rebreather, crisp and clean._

 _Bruce is aware there's ground under him. When he looks, though, there's nothing there. No texture, no color. Like standing on glass and looking through to see clouds._

 _The air swirls, a subtle shift that tugs and pulls at the white in front of him. It draws Bruce's attention back up. The film of the atmosphere stretches thin enough that a shadow fades in in the distance, so far away that it's greyed over like a star that's fading into sunrise. The skin around Bruce's eyes pull together when he squints. The figure doesn't grow clearer._

 _"Who are you?" Bruce asks._

 _There's the vestige of a sad smile despite the faceless figure. Words as well, but it's as if all sounds are being snatched and deafened and drowned; nothing comes through._

 _"Who are you?" Bruce finds himself asking again, an emotion there in his voice he can't identify._

 _A few more words slip by. An apology is all that comes through, and even then, Bruce imagines the words more than he hears them. The distance between the both of them is still too vast, a faraway echo in a soundproof room. A hue of eyes are watching him, softened in something he can only liken to sorrow, and the person continues speaking. Conveying a story. A life. A name. Bruce would give anything to understand even that much._

 _"I know you," Bruce says to empty space, the words echoing back to him. It's surprising how the moment the sentence is spoken Bruce isn't sure he believes it anymore._

 _The figure must realize this, the peaceful air turning sympathetic, but the smile never falters. There's a hurt there, a throb in the shift of light over eclipsed eyes. "No," the form admits, and the words shimmer and die the moment they're spoken. "You don't know me, Bruce…"_

 _There's more to that sentence._

 _Bruce knows there is._

 _He tries to give chase because his thighs are coiled with the need to investigate and the instinct's burning him alive. Of course, it's not until that moment, always the instant he moves to sprint, that he remembers._

 _This is a dream. And Bruce already knows how it ends._

 _It's always the same. The air tenses and twists and traps him the moment he takes another step, the ground beneath him shattering at the footfall, and everything slips upward._ I know you _, he keeps thinking, trying to remember, but it's already too late._ He's on his back.

Back at the Manor. Back at home.

And it really is the same every time.

The second Bruce springs up with open eyes, the dream's already gone from his memory.

* * *

Bruce has rationalized it in fifty different ways: lack of sleep, trick of the eyes, hyper-vigilance. They're all stupid suspicions, but Bruce can't think of much else to explain the strange feeling nagging at the back of his brain, the kind you get when you walk into a room and forget why you walked in. It leaves Bruce scrutinizing the tea of a local café like the solution's hidden in the leaves or the steam. As usual, no answer comes—all excluding the arched brow of the redhead across from him.

"This just in," Vicki Vale mocks dryly. "Local bachelor falls for Earl Grey. Children to be christened Jasmine and Chamomile."

Bruce slips on an amused smirk to show he's still present, even though he truly isn't. "Sorry. I've just had a lot of things on my mind lately. That dress, for one thing."

"I'm going to pretend I haven't heard that one before," Vicki grouses in turn. She's been tapping the back of her pen against a notepad for three minutes now. It's mostly blank. She's going to fix that soon, Bruce surmises, a sly transition to something worthy of the morning paper. "Although I can imagine why you'd be so distracted," the reporter starts, just as predicted, "with, what? Three kids? Dick, Cassandra, and…?"

"Damian," Bruce finishes on autopilot. Something feels like it's missing there too, another word, another name, another _something_ on the tip of his tongue. No one knows about Jason being alive; that might explain the feeling of absence. And yet, there's a persistent prod insisting that it's because of something else. Something obvious. Bruce spares a second pursuing the thought, but it's already long gone. He takes another draft of tea to get his mind back in order. "The three of them keep me pretty busy, for sure," the man continues once he swallows. "But frankly, I wouldn't dare trouble you with the details. Instead, why don't you tell me more about what a gorgeous woman like you's been doing with her free time?"

The reporter's eyes thin at the dodge. "Just trying to make an honest living. And speaking of making a living, I hear there have been some changes going on at Wayne Enterprises. A new branch for…"

And Bruce tries to focus on the words, registers them somewhere—He does. But something calls to him right outside the café window then, a whisper in his ear the same as déjà vu. Maybe it's paranoia from his nightly activities. Maybe it's a fever dream. It feels as though it can't be either, however, because right now is the epitome of normalcy: Throngs of people are passing by immediately outside the window along the sidewalk, all work clothes and phone calls and high heel clicks. The world above the skyscrapers is a burst of midday blue.

Normal.

Bruce searches passerby for a familiar face anyway, scans for something that fits and makes sense, because whatever version of "normal" this is feels...incomplete. A few seconds pass, and Bruce makes to turn back. _It was just my imagination_ , he decides, tries to ground himself in the citrus scent of pekoe and the leafing of a paperback's page from across the room.

That's when something flickers in his peripherals outside the window, something diaphanous as clouds over moons or a pin drop in a clamor.

Bruce barely notices the squeak of his chair when he jumps up or the couple he almost bowls over when he bursts out of the café entrance. His heart's hot with adrenaline—with realization—but the epiphany's slipping away as fast as it's hit.

"What happened?" Vicki pants as she bolts up beside him, pen and paper in hand.

"I thought I—" Bruce starts, stunned, but the words fade the moment they leave his lips. He doesn't even know how to explain what he saw. It was like seeing someone from another life that he can barely remember yet still recognizes. Only now, Bruce can't remember for the life of him what he saw, only has the vague impression of remembering imprinted on his mind.

It's crazy, Bruce labels, reigns himself back in. It's—

"It's nothing."

And just like that, Bruce tears his eyes away from across the street. Vicki looks like she's about to press him, but he cuts her off. "Let's go back inside."

The entire day Bruce keeps reminding himself he didn't see anything. It was the glare off the window, the light caught on a passerby's watch. The explanations are myriad, and Bruce is so resolute that he almost convinces himself one of them is the truth. It's not until later that night, swathed in the darkness of the cave and the glow of computers, that Bruce gives in and checks the surveillance cameras. Just to see. He memorizes the people walking. The faces. The buzz. He breathes each time he sees himself burst out onto the street. And in the end, he's right: It really is nothing.

There's no one there.

* * *

"What is it, Nightwing?" Bruce grunts, eyes still pinned to the building opposite them. They found reason to believe an arms deal is happening there tonight, an abandoned apartment complex used mainly by the Maroni's. A few heat signatures are shifting in blurs of oranges and reds inside, a heartening sign their lead is good. Other than that, all looks quiet.

That is, until Dick shifts again, something obviously on his mind. "I dunno," the man admits, face worked into something neighboring worry. "It's just… Do you ever feel like something's… _missing_?"

Bruce continues to keep his gaze focused. "Stonegate's missing a few inmates," he answers, shirks the question. He can feel Dick roll his eyes behind the white of his mask.

"You know what I mean, B. Something's felt off for weeks now. Think of that robbery we ran across the other day—or that would-be homicide. Those things don't get stopped on their own."

Bruce drones in faint agreement. Dick does have a point: Those _were_ strange. All random events. No connection from what they could decipher. What was most pressing, though, was the fact that no one could ID the person who'd stepped in, all witnesses describing a different person. (Tall. Short. Teenaged. Elderly. Mask. No mask. The list went on.) One person even attested that they'd been blown out of danger by the wind, another by magic. For all Bruce knew, they very well could have been: The cameras only caught a vague blur just at the point of contact on the would-be-victim, like the image of a hand or an arm had been snipped clean out.

"Things have been…strange, yes," Bruce acquiesces reluctantly. "But Oracle's doing what she can to look into any cloaking. All we can do is be patient and—"

"Vigilant. I know," Dick finishes, resting his chin on his palm with a look of dismay. "I just can't help it. These things bother me."

Bruce sighs through his nose, partially sympathetic, partially tolerant. There's no point in throwing gasoline on Dick's fire by telling him Bruce's own thoughts, telling him about the café the other day or the sleepless nights he's been having. They need to keep their heads about them right now, and there's no time, anyway. The heat signatures in the apartment move, scramble. It's an erratic kind, like they're being thrown around and there's something moving them.

"Let's go," Bruce says, and five seconds later, both he and Dick are crashing through the windows of the apartment. The latter rolls to his feet, escrima sticks in hand with a stern expression, but his face quickly falls. Everyone's already down. The guns are untouched, strewn across the floor.

"What on earth…?" Dick mutters, shifting back to a stand as he surveys the damage. No one's dead, just broken and moaning as they come back to. Some of the tiles in the floor are cracked, and a picture frame is shattered on the floor at the younger man's feet. Dick picks it up. The photo inside is missing.

It's a short scan of the room that reveals the door leading outside the apartment's still open—an exit route, and that has Bruce flicking the thermal imaging back on. A number of people live in the complex, so as expected, bursts of carmine dance above and below him. There's one that's different, though. Distance is making the form fade, but Bruce can still make it out. It's an outline of green that must be from excess body heat, the inside not colored in with the usual reds and oranges.

The silhouette's in the shape of a person.

"Keep watch until the police come," is all Bruce says to Dick before he's hurtling himself back out the window. The person is making for the roof, so a line is shot up to pull Bruce in the right direction. It's disorienting to suss out the green contour among the visual noise, the vigilante losing sight of it for a fraction of a second before he pinpoints it again higher up. The signature's streaking over the roof a head tilt above.

"Stop!" Bruce barks, immediately on the shadow's heels. The warning is tossed aside, and that's permission to keep up the chase. Whoever they are, they're familiar with the area—with Gotham, as the moment Bruce is only a few strides behind, the shadow swivels and jumps to run the length of a clothesline that sends fabric flying. They're small distractions, inconveniences that throw him, but they aren't particularly hostile, only calculated. There's something oddly nostalgic about it for some reason; it's as if this person knows how Bruce thinks.

In the end, it's a five-minute-long sprint over tenements before Bruce can make it personal. A batarang toss closes the gap, and there it is again: The figure rolls underneath it, like it knew Bruce would do that. It's unnerving but not as unnerving as Bruce feels when he continues rushing forward, expecting the person to take shape from proximity only they don't. They remain reduced to a haze, a distortion in space that blurs at the edges the way ink does on skin, spiders out of the contours in sharp lines.

 _Cloaking_ , Bruce concludes, catching the batarang on its return before he roundhouses. The figure dances away, perfectly timed and scarcely out of reach, and this person has Bruce down textbook, knows how he moves and how to counter. The conclusion pricks on Bruce's wind-beaten skin, because this feels like sparring with Dick or Damian or Cass, the way it used to feel with Jason. It feels like fighting a ghost.

In some ways, that's what this is.

The form has no smell in the same way water doesn't. It makes no sound, either. No pants from exertion, no snap of a cape that Bruce swears he senses just past his nose when the figure flips. When it lands, there are faint circles of dust that halo footprints and nothing more.

"What are you?" Bruce asks in a lull.

There isn't an answer. Only the green glow from where Bruce still has the thermal vision on, a pink puff of breath that mantles what must be a face. The exhale's jagged, as if there are syllables seized in the heat. No words come.

The form wavers after a long moment, lists one direction, and Bruce knows a feint when he sees one. A leap pushes him into the figure's sphere, a hand loosening a line of his grapnel. This stranger might know his moves, but Bruce can improvise, play dirtier than he normally does. There's still no smell, no sound—not even from this close, but there's a gasp of displaced oxygen that Bruce can feel warm the air when he loops the line around an ankle and yanks.

The green contour slams back into the roof. It tries to catch itself on the parapet, but the wall slides between its torso and arm and there's a jerk to a shoulder joint that Bruce can imagine hearing pop. He still can't, though, and he wants to know why.

Bruce's hand grips what feels like a mask, pulls it off easily; the form doesn't even struggle this time. The outline of a nose is turned to the side like it can't watch, and Bruce—He still doesn't understand. Because he's holding a mask that flickers into color, an aquiline beak in black, but the form still doesn't have a face, just a scintillating silhouette like a glitch on a monitor.

"What happened to you?" Bruce restates, gruff and blunt while secretly horrified into awe. It's kin to sympathy, what he's feeling, an emotion he reserves for the metas they meet, for the villains, even, because more often than not, they didn't ask for the power they got and it turns out to be more curse than gift.

Another exhalation cloud escapes, choppy again, trying to explain but failing, so Bruce reaches out. He knows his hand won't slip through (The person's solid.), but he's still removed his glove. He's curious to know if there's actually heat from the person, to know what sensation comes from moving into their space. It's strange when he does, like touching the cool finish of tile, but heat rapidly pushes out the chill and it shows in an anthesis of thermal red right where Bruce's fingers are. He thinks it might be a reaction, dangerous, incendiary. A voice comes through—

"—happen again and you won't—"

—and Bruce retracts his fingers. The words cut off while the heat fades back into a green outline, simple and unrevealing. It leaves Bruce staring at the space. The figure hasn't moved, face still turned away, and the contour shivers, almost like it's grown cold from isolation. Bruce knows the tremor is just from the cloaking, but that fact doesn't keep him from shifting forward again.

Fingers cut through the distance once more while Bruce's other hand flicks off the infrared. The man is expecting it now, but the burst of warmth that greets his fingertips is still a surprise. Even more shocking is the bloom of color that variegates outward at the point of contact. Bruce can see it all in detail now, the hues seeping outward like tea leaves in water, and Bruce almost pulls his hand away again.

He's stuck, though. Can't move.

The now-visible face might as well kick him in the gut, hit him in his head, because a fog of thoughts are jarred and cleared. Photographs of memories weaving together, events altering to account for another figure. Gaps after Jason's death click into place. Everything from Bane to being lost in time. Questions Bruce didn't even know he had suddenly appear with the answers in tow.

It all makes sense now: his own life.

The last edges of the person are filtering through at this point, radiating outward from the spot where Bruce's hand is resting against the rouged skin of a cheekbone. Blue eyes (They're blue, Bruce knows.) remain closed, the dust of lashes forming a line in profile, and the young man's mouth is pulled tight in a permanent wince.

"Tim…" Bruce says, half question, half statement. The name rises from his throat almost of its own volition.

His son doesn't reply, but for whatever reason, his expression grows more pained, almost tortured.

"Tim," Bruce repeats. It's surprisingly easy to slip his thumb down so that his hand is bracketing the underside of the younger man's jaw. He guides it to face him. "What happened to you?"

Tim finally opens his eyes, a short flash of eyelids being pulled back, and Bruce gets lost in them for a minute, because he's struck with relief. The world rights itself, everything that once was off kilter corrected, and that one missing puzzle piece in Bruce's existence snaps into place like it was always meant to be. A complete picture. The result's euphoric.

But the euphoria fades fast.

Tim doesn't look relieved. Doesn't look anything past harboring a deep-seated hurt. Bruce wonders if he's still upset about Boomerang, because that was the last interaction they really had outside of work, outside of formal meetings, public speeches, and passing each other off as father and son despite the faint resentment nursed on both sides.

Tim was on his way back to Cairo last Bruce heard. He'd mentioned it on a business trip to Montreal two months ago. "Following a lead on Scarab," the young man explained, laying the factoid down bluntly without once glancing up from the email he was typing. It was a characterizing feature of the entire trip: avoidance.

Apparently that hasn't changed.

Bruce removes his hand from Tim's jaw, shifting the contact to the boy's knee instead. The colors start to dissolve back out of his form in the interim before filtering back, like Tim needs the touch to ground him here. Keep him visible.

"I don't have time for this," Tim says, not angry, not short. Just detached in a defeated way. He moves to stand up, and Bruce would stop him if it weren't for the fact Tim's shoulder beats him to it. It's probably dislocated. The pain is enough to earn a hiss. "I'm on the clock. Need to go."

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

Tim's expression hardens past the pain, facing Bruce again. He's still gripping his shoulder from underneath his cape, and he guides the limb behind his head until the bone pops back into place. The boy's nose crinkles when it does—sounds awful. Bruce would be more commiserating if it weren't for the fact that his son's been missing for two months and no one's…

No one's noticed.

With a long exhale, Tim lets his arm relax back against his side. "I already _have_ told you, alright?"

Tim hasn't told him. He hasn't told him anything.

"What are you talking about?"

Tim pauses for an eternity, searching Bruce's face before the boy's countenance crumples and he shakes his head. "I really need to go. I'm in the middle of something, and I can't screw it up." He pulls a piece of paper out from a pouch in his belt, a photograph now that Bruce looks closer. It must be the one from the crime scene earlier. "Each clue leads to the next. If I miss one, I'm toast. So just let me go."

"You've still got time," Bruce replies once he processes the picture. It's of a family out by the riverside—Coslett Street—and the time the photo was taken is stamped into the corner. Two o'clock, it says. That'd be forty minutes from now in the a.m., and Coslett's only twenty away from here on foot. "Explain."

For someone in a time crunch, Tim is hesitant to say anything. He looks anywhere but at Bruce, and it stings a bit to think that his son isn't more relieved to see him. Tim is back, and Bruce is here, and that… That should make a difference, right? And yet, Tim continues to look like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"It's that Assassination Tournament I was looking into," Tim gives up a few seconds later, running a hand through his hair. (It's gotten longer since they last met.) "The mastermind of it's taken a liking to me. Made a whole gauntlet for me to run and everything on our home turf, no help wanted. Cameras don't pick up on me. People too… It's like I've just been deleted out of my own life." Tim snorts mirthlessly. "Don't even know if it's magic or tech that's been used on me. Maybe both. As far as I can tell, the only way to get the cure is to play their game."

"And if you should lose?"

Tim glances up, eyes flashing again. The silence is answer enough: He'd be stuck this way.

"…Then I'm coming with you."

Tim winces from something that isn't pain ( _Why does he keep doing that?_ ), taking his mask back and working it over his head. Bruce is glad that he doesn't pull it up over his face yet. "No, you're not coming."

"Why's that?" Bruce demands. He can tell Tim's keeping something from him, not being honest in a way that's important. It's written all over the boy's posture: His torso is rolled away from him, protective, and the position makes Tim look younger than he really is—It always has. Bruce squeezes his knee in silent encouragement, maybe in threat. _I'm not leaving until you tell me._

"You're not coming, because we've already tried, B." ( _That's...not possible._ ) But Tim's voice is steady as it is true. "It never works. The minute we split up, you forget. It's how it always goes. Whatever's on me is just too strong."

Bruce feels his stomach drop. Tim is looking at him flatly, burnt-out, as if this is a conversation they've had dozens of times, only Bruce can't recall a single one.

"Tim… How many times have we found you?"

The boy bites his lip, a death sentence in the form of a nervous tick. "Dick found me once," he offers tentatively. "Damian too. But you…?" Bruce waits. "This would be the seventh time."

Considering how careful Tim is, it's a devastating amount. Seven times of being found, of explaining this. Bruce's mind is filling in the gaps. He imagines Tim coming to them as soon as this started only to find himself invisible, voice silent as a specter, and even when Tim could, when he figured out how this worked, the boy found himself forgotten all over again. Over and over.

"So it's just easier if I go it alone, okay?" Tim finishes, sounding broken. Bruce opens his mouth to reply, a thousand thoughts on the tip of his tongue that get stolen by the roar of an alarm from nearby. The whirl picks up and dies—The alarm bell was likely cut. Dick should still be waiting for the police or, at least, is a few minutes behind; Tim has somewhere to be; and Damian and Stephanie are investigating a string of homicides in Bristol on the mainland. Bruce is the only one near enough with time to spare.

"You should go," Tim says, and his mouth turns sideways in mute disappointment. "I've spent too much time here, anyway."

Bruce extends a hand to help the boy up, careful to watch his shoulder. He'd help treat it if they had time to spare, but he only has enough to set one thing right. "I'll be there." Tim flinches in surprise. "Coslett Street at two. I'll remember."

Tim doesn't look like he's bought it at all, is just going through the motions. Bruce wonders if the boy has heard this same promise before. It smarts when Bruce realizes he probably has.

"Alright," Tim agrees jadedly. He's on his feet now, teeth ground together to bite back the ache in his shoulder, and he still lists a bit. Bruce keeps a hand on his good forearm just in case. The man's trying to think of a way to get through to his son that he's serious, trying to think of something to say, but maybe words aren't enough.

"I won't forget, Tim."

Tim sighs, routine and dubious, but the wonted nature of the gesture vanishes when Bruce pulls him a step closer into his space. It's obvious from the way Tim stiffens that this isn't something Bruce has done before, because it takes a second for his son to loosen enough to return the embrace.

"I won't," Bruce repeats into the boy's hair. It smells clean, like castor oil and lemongrass, and he focuses on the scent and who it signifies. There's a sneaking feeling that as soon as Bruce lets go, memories will start to fade away. _Tim_ will fade away. He's determined not to let that come to pass, so here Bruce is, memorizing the tone of his son's voice and the way he hugs back fiercer than anyone Bruce knows, almost desperate, like the boy knows it could always be the last. "I promise."

Tim nods weakly against his collarbone. Bruce thinks the boy believes him, hopes he does, but Bruce doesn't have time to ask. The sound of shattering glass bursts from across the alleyway, breaking the moment. It reminds them both that they can't linger here.

Tim separates from him instantly, slipping apart like water on oil, and he turns and runs in the direction of the riverside. They're both on the clock for this—no time for goodbyes, for hesitation. Bruce still notes when Tim slows to a stop over the ledge. The teenager angles back, looking over his shoulder. The color of him is evanescing into air already, and it's like necrosis, like a part of Bruce is dying and if he loses it, he's not sure he'll ever get it back.

"See you later," Tim says, a heft to the words. The glint is fading out of his hair even before he pulls his mask up, and a moment later, the boy's dissolved between the buildings.

Bruce bolts off in the opposite direction. There's guilt in the fact that he's jumping into the fray while Tim's descending into a no man's land. It makes Bruce quick, galvanizes his steps as he swings down to the delicatessen that's being robbed. No time to waste. It's not a moment later that bodies smash out of store windows and against shelves, scramble across the street before their ankles are tied up in bolas. Bruce isn't paying the fight much attention. This is all instinctual, auto-pilot, because his brain is running over a promise he made and a person who's dear to him.

It takes three minutes.

"Looks like you didn't need me after all," a voice echoes through the store. Bruce is cuffing the last of the assailants, barely looking up to see Dick leaned against the entrance's doorjamb. The younger man's sporting a sly smile, and the aisle lights reflect smoothly across the blue of his uniform.

Bruce doesn't reply. He watches the ghost of his own shadow shimmer along the linoleum, like there's something chasing him. Something he's forgetting.

Dick whistles to himself to fill the silence. "A gun bust _and_ a meal all in one night. Don't think it gets much better than this." He throws a ten on the counter, considering the meats and cheeses before glancing back Bruce's way. He straightens. "You alright, boss? You look a bit…lost."

That's not far off the mark. Bruce feels torn. He caught the bad guys, did everything right. But it still feels like he's let someone down and he's not sure why. "Is there something we were supposed to do tonight?"

Dick raises an eyebrow, a small perk along the black of his domino. "Well, we did promise Alfred to be home early. We've both been working pretty hard."

"Alfred," Bruce repeats to himself, still feeling out of it.

That has to be what's hounding him.

And in the same stroke, it doesn't feel like that's it at all.

A hand slides onto Bruce's shoulder, a light touch that he recognizes as his eldest's. "Let's go home," Dick says, concern stitched into the words. "You look like you could use some rest."

"Yeah," Bruce agrees emptily, trying to convince himself that's what this is—just exhaustion. His gut continues to nag him that something's wrong, though, that something's…something's _missing_ , and the entire way home he can't figure out why his costume smells faintly of lemongrass.

* * *

 _"Who are you?!"_

 _Bruce's voice is hoarse from having asked the same question, shouted it over miles and miles of an anodyne dream. The same silhouette lingers on the horizon, a drop of rain dusked by gossamer, and Bruce has had enough: He has to get closer, has to know._

 _The man moves one foot forward, forces himself through the haze, because he can shoulder his way through most things in life. Just not this._

 _"I'm sorry," a voice says, right before the floor breaks and the dream ends the same way it always does. Bruce struggles regardless to stay asleep one moment longer. He needs to know what the figure tells him, needs to understand the sorry cadence and why it makes him feel sorry too._

 _"I know you!" Bruce insists, and the figure responds, sad as a eulogy before a burial. The words carry on the piercing shatter of the dream, on the rush of falling that mimics dread because Bruce doesn't want this._

 _"No… You don't know me, Bruce," the voice muses, even as it slips away. "You can't."_


	14. To the Boy Who Called Yesterday

_AN: A de-aged fic was bound to happen sooner or later, am I right?_

* * *

 **To the Boy Who Called** **Yesterday**

 _"Just give him time. That's all we can do._ "

The words aren't what Bruce wanted to hear. They're certainly not the worst thing in the world, but for whatever reason, letting this drag out is unsettling in a way he can't pin down. Bruce doesn't shift, though; he remains leaned over the keyboard in the Cave, fingers steepled and expression tired. "How long do you think it'll take?"

" _Hard to say exactly_ ," Zatanna answers through the speaker. There's no video to supplement the noise, and it leaves Bruce visibly isolated. " _The magic isn't too complex from what you've described, but it's the simplest kinds that are hardest to break. The trickier the spell, the easier it is to find a weakness—as much as it's a mess to unravel. But this? It's charm magic. Basic._ "

"Difficult to exploit."

" _Exactly_ ," Zatanna affirms. " _Trying to force it now could do more harm than good. That's not to say all hope is lost, though. Time is the universal solvent when it comes to indirect magic. If I had to put forward a guess, I'd give it until morning for it to wear off._ "

Bruce closes his eyes resignedly. Again, not the worst. Still not what he wanted. "Is there anything I can do in the meantime?"

Zatanna's mouth crinkles in an audible smile. " _Trust me: You'd best leave my world to me for now. The last thing Gotham needs is both you_ and _Robin out of commission. Besides, I imagine you're needed right where you are."_

Bruce drones in dry agreement. "...Keep me posted on what you find."

 _"Certainly. Get some rest."_

The speaker clicks off, and Bruce leans back in his chair. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he can almost feel the dark circles under his eyes, the skein of his muscles overspent and sore. The overhead lights are so bright that they hurt to look at.

After a few moments, Bruce decides that rest isn't such a bad idea, so he pushes himself up from his chair.

The clock in the study closes behind him a minute later.

Right now, the Manor feels jarringly empty. Skeletal and bare. The truss above the hallway hovers some twenty feet up, the paintings on the walls gaze after him with the soft glow of oil-painted faces in the dark, and the air is settled to the point where Bruce can feel himself shifting dust with each step. Alfred turned in an hour ago now, Tim even earlier than that. Bruce has the same goal in mind as he lumbers across the foyer landing to where his room is. That's when his ears prick.

The loaded spring of a knob turning.

A door exhaling relief as it sways open.

Bruce glances down the stair balustrade in blank curiosity (The sound's not threatening, he knows.), tracing row upon row of bread-crumb spindles that lead to the opened front entrance. A figure is standing there above the threshold. It's only visible because the night outside is a modicum brighter, the faint light spilling in around the silhouette in washed-out greys. Its back is to him.

Bruce watches silently, but the figure doesn't move, waits too, its tiny fingers clutching the doorknob while looking out into the rain. The storm's been going for a few hours now, drizzles of Christmas light drops that stream off the eaves in a curtain that's more sound than shape. It's too dark to make out much, but Bruce can read the hesitancy and longing in the figure anyway. The vulnerability is why Bruce stays back for as long as he does, simply watching and waiting.

And yet, despite Bruce's own reservations, the stairway slowly disappears behind him, his legs working of their own accord, until he's reached the doorway himself. Bruce is still too unpracticed to know what to do now, so he bends a knee to be eye-level with the person next to him and looks out into the storm as well. There's a thread of mystery in the weather, cool and dense. A mist of raindrops grace the exposed skin of their faces and hold the silence.

"I thought you were in bed," Bruce says eventually.

The boy beside him doesn't look his way, instead parsing the shadowed trees past the drive. Their leaves chase the storm ceiling like the surf does the sand.

"Not sleepy," the six-year-old answers. His voice is different from the one Bruce remembers, markedly so, but is still warm in its odd familiarity. Bruce only wishes the boy remembered him as well. This version of Tim is a time capsule in human form, though, six years of memories and experiences back from the past for just one night.

None of those memories—none of that _life_ — involves Bruce; to Tim, they're hardly more than strangers.

The rain steals a moment before the child opens his mouth again, words small but effortless. "...Why can't I go home?"

The home in question is nearby still. Ten, fifteen minutes on foot. The building might be visible in the neighboring yard if they only look hard enough. Maybe just. But then again, maybe not.

"Is that where you were heading?"

Slowly, the boy nods. It's obvious that he's looking past the front gates like he's starving for it, but Bruce already knows he won't find anything out there.

"You can't, Tim. There's no one there to look after you right now. You'd be alone."

It's not until then that Tim looks at him, eyes holding on to some light that shouldn't exist out here in the dark but does. "Does it matter?"

Bruce doesn't know how to answer that. He might have, in any other circumstance, but it throws him now because he's caught up in the fact this is still Tim, more somber and solemn and young. But undeniably him.

It's just that… It's so opposite to the seventeen-year-old from yesterday. That Tim likes loud music and fast cars and grins with teeth that have the charm all things do when they're humanly imperfect. Bruce wonders when six-year-old Tim changed, when he shed that sad look he's wearing now.

Or, perhaps, when he got so good at hiding it.

"Come here," Bruce beckons softly, and Tim complies, eyes quiet and trusting. The boy doesn't complain when Bruce picks him up, simply surveys him in that calm way children do when they've been held by too many strangers. It's another thing Bruce wants to address, wants to fix, but he knows a few hours isn't nearly long enough. Instead, he settles for arranging Tim so that he's sitting in the niche of one of his elbows and closes the front door.

"How long will I be here?" Tim asks while they ascend the stairs.

"Just for the night. Not too long."

Bruce notes that Tim doesn't seem happy or disappointed at that, face as difficult to read as it has been all night. The boy merely wreathes his arms tighter around Bruce's neck, just a fraction, and looks up at the high ceiling like they're in the Vatican. "Who's picking me up tomorrow?"

Bruce masks his wince well, but it doesn't mean the question is easy. Answering is a catch-22: to say a name is to lie; to say no one is to add unnecessary hurt. But, worst of all, is to say nothing at all.

"Your father," Bruce chooses in the end, and he can tell he has Tim's attention in an instant. It's a lucky thing they've reached the room Bruce wants, because it allows the man to turn his face away as he opens the door.

The lamp on the nightstand is quickly switched on to reveal this room isn't Tim's. Or, not the one Bruce knows as Tim's, anyway. It's just a guest room that's void of personality: simple sheers, simple bedframe, simple armchair in the corner. No one uses the room much. Over the years, it's morphed into a shrine for that one block quilt bedspread from the 60s that Alfred's determined to keep alive. The quilt itself remains kicked to the end of the bed from where Tim left it last. The sheets are still warm when Bruce sets him down.

"Will he really be here?" Tim asks, hopeful, as he stuffs his legs under the blankets Bruce pulls up for him.

The man stalls, hesitancy sparking over his face for the briefest of moments. "Your father?" Bruce tries anyway, hoping beyond hope that Tim doesn't verify the guess. To his dismay, the six-year-old nods. "Yeah. ...Yeah. He'll be here."

"Promise?"

Another second of hesitation passes. Bruce is too far down the path to turn back now, so he forces himself onward despite instinct and conscience. "I promise. Just...go to sleep. Tomorrow will come quicker that way."

It hurts to see that Tim smiles at that. There's a glimpse of the teenager Bruce knows, the bright flash of it blinding. "Mom says the same thing."

"What about?"

Tim nuzzles deeper into the pillows, a light smile still in place. "She says sleep's like time travel. Just close your eyes and you're in tomorrow."

"Wise words," Bruce murmurs, feeling guilty about... _everything_ surrounding this scenario. But at the end of the day, he knows the sooner Tim goes to sleep, the sooner the boy can move on. Yet, in the same vein, Bruce almost wants to talk with Tim more. He wants to know this version of him by heart because a part of Bruce thinks it will give him a clue to understanding Tim as Bruce knew him yesterday—and will know him tomorrow.

It's obvious, however, that a conversation isn't in the cards for tonight: the six-year-old's quickly dropping off, eyelids heavy and shoulders lax. It's doubtful that the boy will wake up having remembered any of this at all.

Bruce settles for patting the back of his hand and hoping for the best. "Goodnight, Tim."

Tim yawns sweetly in reply ("Goodnight, Mr. Wayne."), and within a matter of seconds, the boy's fast asleep.

* * *

Bruce is definitely starting to feel his age. Twenty years of crime fighting hasn't been good to him, and his lumbar reasserts that truth when he wakes up feeling like he's been hit by a city bus. Every other part of him doesn't feel much better, but at the very least, his vision works well enough to tell him he didn't leave the guest room last night; evidently, he fell asleep in the armchair.

Typical.

Regardless, Bruce is still a bit surprised to see the signs of daybreak, distant bird song and post-storm sunlight slipping through the sheers. The morning glow competes with the lamp that Bruce must've forgotten to turn off. (Again, typical.) The synthetic and authentic lights clash, but other than that, the Manor has remained tranquilly still.

Tim has too.

Bruce holds his breath as he analyzes the form, measuring height and weight and age. The boy's face is to him, eyes closed and breaths steady, and he has all the common tells of Tim Drake-Wayne: a teen's jawline, hair that's as long as it is unruly, and a few scars that chip the skin of his cheek.

He looks seventeen.

He looks like the Tim Bruce knows.

Bruce exhales at the image, soaking it in for a while with a mixture of relief and regret, before rolling himself up to a stand. He'll head to bed in his own room, he thinks. Just has to turn out the light before leaving.

It takes him a bit to find the switch beneath the lamp shade, to the point Bruce has to kneel down in order to search underneath it. The moment the switch turns off, however, is the moment he feels eyes on him.

Bruce turns his head to find Tim awake.

The teen has the passive air of someone who's been up for a while—maybe before Bruce woke up, even—with pupils that seem well-adjusted and composed, and it rings a line of recognition in Bruce's brain. The fact Tim hasn't said anything yet speaks volumes.

Tim's expression stays flat, poignant. There's an undercurrent of conversation transpiring between them, and Bruce only registers the half of it, the distant heartache and years of disappointment emanating that he wouldn't have caught if he hadn't seen them in the face of a six-year-old only hours ago. It's enough for Bruce to understand that the events of yesterday weren't forgotten. Not by himself. Not by Tim, either.

Tim's still studying him pensively. Bruce wonders what's going on in that head of his, if he's missing his father or resenting the fact he honestly thought he had a chance of seeing him again. Bruce suspects it must be a bit of both, and the man hates the fact he didn't have much choice but to lie to him.

Then again, Bruce didn't really lie.

He has a feeling Tim knows it, too.

"...Hey," Bruce greets dolefully, an olive branch in a word, and the syllable breaks the darkness of the moment. It's obvious Tim still hurts, the pain of things so deep that they're a part of who he is anymore. But then, there are instants like right now, when Tim's face melts into a pained smile, bittersweet but warm, and it feels like things are getting better rather than getting worse.

"Hey, Dad."


	15. Surprise!

_AN: Situational fluff/humor featuring a sleep-deprived Bruce.  
_

* * *

 **Surprise!**

It's thirty seconds before Bruce deigns to talk. "Alright. You have my attention. What's this about?"

"You'll see," Tim chirps from somewhere to his right, still holding him by the arm and leading him forward. It's dumb. Bruce knows the Manor like the back of his hand, so why the blind fold was necessary is entirely lost on him. Alfred is looming somewhere to his left, though, obviously in on the whole charade, which means that Bruce can't do anything more than comply with an "I'm suffering" sigh, and yes, he really is suffering.

"Left turn here, sir."

Bruce can tell they're on the third floor, having just gotten off the main foyer staircase. The sound of shifting kevlar plates, Tim and himself still in their vigilante gear minus the masks, and footfalls on the hallway runner is all Bruce can hear. Maybe, just maybe, he can notice the air coming through the vents too, but he's not sure if that's simply the audible rush of blood in his head or not. Bruce hasn't slept for a while—too many cases to work on, which has translated into a vague illness that may or may not involve running a temperature. It still stands that there's too much work to do, however, and as soon as this shenanigan is over with, that's where he's getting back to: the Cave and a string of arson cases. (He's been smelling like smoke for days now.) All Bruce knows at the moment, though, is that there's supposed to be a surprise up here. He tolerates the idea purely because Tim wouldn't stop shooting him pleading, kicked-puppy expressions. And well, _Alfred_.

Tim gingerly pulls his forearm to the right, and Bruce obeys. A doorway opens, the faintest temperature change chasing chills over the back of his neck. The blindfold hikes up a fraction when Bruce's nose crinkles in a frown, because he knows this room. He was here just the other week.

"Let me get this off you," Tim's voice comes from his side again, timbre strained. The boy's fingers tighten their grip on Bruce's arm, not painful but noticeable, and Bruce imagines that Tim is off-balance on his tip-toes, envisions the crease of the boy's brow as he gropes blindly for the blindfold. (Oh, how the tables have turned.) Eventually, Bruce leans down enough for Tim to actually succeed. The teenager whips the band off with a happy, "Surprise!" and yep.

It's Bruce's bedroom.

Bruce's eyes scroll over the space. Nothing looks different than he remembers. Then again, he hasn't been here for a while.

"What did you do?" the man grunts, somewhat accusatory but mostly just suspicious.

"It's your bed," Tim grins, flaring his arms out at the Alaska King as if it might as well be gift wrapped. Bruce scrutinizes the furniture piece for an eternal second. A platoon of pillows are still conquering the top half of the mattress, the bottom half smoothed over by a comforter and a chenille throw that Alfred decided would look nice. It looks untouched.

Bruce inches closer anyway. His expression is bland skepticism as he prods at the blankets with his fingertips in sharp motions. It's a silly suspicion, but he's expecting someone—maybe Dick—to pop out of the spread like a person out of a cake. Nothing happens, though. Bruce is infinitely grateful for that.

"It certainly is my bed," Bruce affirms seriously, putting the question to rest before drifting back to the exit. Tim emits this surprised kind of squawk before scrambling after him.

"Wait!" the boy barks, skidding in front of the doorway so Bruce has to stop. "Where are you going?"

"Back to work."

Alfred pipes in from the corner of the room, already tugging the curtains closed. "I'm afraid that's not going to happen, sir."

An eye squint. "What do you mean?"

Tim beams, so eager to spill the details that he looks like he might actually split in half. "See, that's the surprise: I phoned in to Dick and Babs last night, and they said they could handle Firefly. You can take the night off!"

Bruce levels something that's not quite Alfred's deadpan but is in the same ballpark. Tim's enthusiasm melts subtly into a nervous laugh, and it's the true head of the house that comes to his rescue.

Alfred clears his throat from the corner. (Because really, that's all it takes.) "I'm afraid it's true, Master Bruce: As of this moment, you are on bedrest." The man snaps the last curtain closed. "My heart _bleeds_ for you."

Bruce tries to work up a counter-argument, but with Alfred, it's tit for tat, sass for sass, and he's struggling to concoct an equivalent response. Alfred just smiles. _I dare you_ , it says.

"Seriously, it's okay, B," Tim intercedes with a good-natured pat on his arm, somehow unscathed by the mental combat occurring here. "I'll be out there too as back-up, so you've got nothing to worry about. And besides, your bed looks like the comfiest thing on the planet. It's a shame to just let it rot up here. I mean..." Tim gestures to the mammoth furniture piece again before flop-sitting on the end of it as if to prove the point. And okay, maybe a point does get made. Just that small amount of impact is enough to send the pillows scurrying out of formation in distress like they're bugging out. Alfred's nose crinkles when a neckroll dives to the floor.

"I understand your concern," Bruce says diplomatically, "but this will have to wait until tomorrow. I have a plan already in motion to catch—"

"Mr. Garfield Lynns?" Alfred finishes smoothly. "Yes, those plans have long since been dispatched to Miss Gordon. She sends her regards."

Bruce doesn't gawk at anything, but if he were a weaker man, he thinks he would be right now. The only evidence of that is the deepening squint to his eyes. Maybe he really could use a few hours, because his brain isn't keeping up with the conversation like it should and it seems his corneas are trying to compensate.

After letting the turn of events fully sink in, Alfred dips his head decisively. "I believe you're now sufficiently convinced, so I'll take my leave. Come along, Master Timothy."

"..."

Both Bruce and Alfred stand-off while waiting for the sound of footsteps. Ultimately, their expressions melt into identical looks of confusion. Nothing's happened.

"Tim?" Bruce asks, turning, because no one just _decides_ not to answer Alfred when he prompts you. Evidently, Tim didn't even get the choice. The fourteen-year-old's exactly where he was when they saw him last, only now on his back, star-fished, and snoring just the tiniest bit. In other words, out cold.

Bruce likes to think that, five seconds ago, he wasn't too tired, but now that the prospect is shoved in his face, his brain is shooting out telegrams saying a horizontal surface is an excellent idea. Bruce's mettle is steadfast, though. He's not so easy to break.

Meanwhile, Alfred's simply sighed under his breath. "Not again," he says, and Bruce gets the vague impression they did a dry-run of this little intervention earlier. Either way, the development adds up to the same thing: So much for Nightwing having back-up.

It's a chance Bruce wants to capitalize on—if only Alfred would let him.

After rubbing at his temples like he has a Guinness-worthy migraine, the self-same man clasps his hands together. "Regardless of what you may be thinking, sir, this does not address the issue of you not having slept for three days." Bruce opens his mouth, but Alfred interjects. "I will be sure to drop Mr. Kent a line to give you proper peace of mind, but for the next eight hours, at least try to rest. In this matter, I think it might be wise for the master to learn from the…" Alfred sends a withering look in Tim's direction. The teen is verging on the unconscious in a way that is actually kind of concerning. "...um, _student_."

Bruce finally relents, unsnapping his cape from his shoulders and throwing it over the seat of a chaise. "Fine. Eight hours. But that's it. I swear, if something goes wrong in that time…"

Alfred merely pauses in the doorway to cup a hand behind his ear. "'Me thought I heard a voice cry,'" the older man quotes with all due grandiloquence, apt to throw the book at him ( _Macbeth_ , in this case).* Bruce hates it when he does that.

As soon as the door closes, Bruce huffs through his nose. "I hope you're happy, Tim. You betrayed me for a despot."

Tim doesn't reply in words, simply throws out the arm that had previously been draped over his stomach. Bruce stares him down for a minute, attempting to telekinetically move the teen, because one, Bruce is exhausted, and two, despite how large Alaska Kings are, Tim has now managed to stick a limb in every quadrant of the bed. To Bruce's chagrin, his staring strategy isn't quite cutting it.

The man shuffles awkwardly, struggling to conjure up a new plan of attack, before ultimately stuffing his arms underneath the kid and fork-lifting him to the other side of the bed so that Bruce can at least sit down. Once he does, he immediately gets the feeling that eight hours is too conservative a time frame. All of his muscle groups are informing him ten years rest, minimum, is in order. He's almost tempted to oblige, but he wants to clear the air first. Alfred's long gone by now, so Bruce feels it's time to call the kid on it.

"Tim," Bruce says, plucking off his own boots and setting them on the floor. "You can stop pretending now. I know you don't snore."

After an eternal, almost-hopeful moment, there's a groan of defeat, and Bruce turns to see Tim up, reclined on his elbows. "In my defense, I told Alfred I'm not a good actor," Tim offers, ruffling the bed head out of his hair like it's a personal offense. "Power of suggestion works better when you're younger, he said."

"That it does."

"Well?" Tim asks. Bruce just looks at him so Tim clarifies. "You know, did it make you any more tired? Gonna pass out for a few hours now and not work yourself into the ground?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow as if telling the teen to put it together himself.

Scowling, Tim finishes smoothing his hair back into place (which, truth be told, still looks like bed head, but Bruce isn't going to point that out) before clambering off. "Okay, okay. I get it. You want to patrol. But Alfred's right on this: Three days straight isn't good for you, so please just _consider_ getting some sleep? It's my job to watch your back, and you really don't make it easy."

Bruce doesn't think about their partnership in those terms often (Most of the time, it's the other way around.), but he can see Tim's serious in what he's saying. It's both humbling and flattering, having someone that dedicated, but more importantly, Bruce can't help it when his eyes stutter over the sliver of a scar just below Tim's hairline, testimony to a close call the other month. It reminds Bruce that he's always one step away from losing another Robin, and his head swims at the mere thought. Still, Bruce reasons, Tim won't grow if Bruce doesn't allow him to. It doesn't make the idea any less scary, though.

"Keep close to Nightwing," Bruce prescribes. Tim's face flashes a shock-joy mix at the sentence, even as Bruce continues, "Anything he or Oracle says, you do to a T—no questions asked. Am I understood?"

"Yeah! I mean...yes sir." Tim pauses, glancing off to the side before looking back. "Does...that mean you're staying then?"

Bruce nods, digging around for that one pillow that's better than all the other ones. "Just keep out of trouble if you can."

Tim grins. He's obviously eager to prove himself, because he backpedals out of the room so fast that he only narrowly remembers to open the door. "You got it, B. I won't let you down!"

Bruce waves him off tiredly, the man's brain deciding that now's a good time to ask if he wants fatigue or headache with his influenza. Still, Bruce can't help but smirk when he hears Tim yes out a fistpump from the other side of the door.

"Kids," the man condemns half-heartedly, shaking his head before burying his face in a pillow. What would he do without them?

* * *

 _AN:_

 _*"Me thought I heard a voice cry, sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep! The innocent sleep." (AKA "Ain't no rest for the wicked.")_


End file.
